


Hell of a Ride

by ChloeWeird



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas, Deal with a Devil, Devil Peter, Endgame Steter, Folklore, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8892511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird/pseuds/ChloeWeird
Summary: Alone on Christmas, Stiles is lonely and miserable, until a mysterious stranger appears and offers a dangerous way back home.***********Under the cover of night, a figure whipped around corners and swept down dark streets. In the peripheral vision of lonely travellers, the shape was inhuman, twisted and huge, but when they turned to look, there was only the disappearing edge of a man's silhouette. There wasn't anything to see.  Only the lingering nothingness of an unnatural shadow. *Whoever decided winter was a good idea was an asshole and a nutcase.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is VERY loosely based on a Quebecois folk tale which is, in itself, based on a few other older stories. It's known as Chasse-galerie if you're curious, but it boils down to a standard deal with the devil, so no background knowledge is required, especially since I've bastardized it completely. 
> 
> I wouldn't call this fic dark, because it seems that I'm incapable of keeping something in that mood, but nor would I call it fluffy. Just a warning, if you're expecting sugar plums and rainbows, I wouldn't. I don't know, it's a mess. Why did I write this????!! Because it's Christmas, and I have the festive spirit deep inside me. Happy Holidays!
> 
> I suppose there's one very brief instance of something that could count as dub-con. Not so much that I feel there's a need to tag it, but see end notes if you're worried.

_Under the cover of night, a figure whipped around corners and swept down dark streets. In the peripheral vision of lonely travellers, the shape was inhuman, twisted and huge, but when they turned to look, there was only the disappearing edge of a man's silhouette. Frowning, they shook their heads and continued walking. There wasn't anything to see._

_Only the lingering nothingness of an unnatural shadow._

***

Whoever decided winter was a good idea was an asshole and a nutcase.

It was pretty, there was no arguing that. Christmas lights twinkled on every street he travelled on, and the tops of lampposts were adorned with dark green wreaths of very convincing fake evergreen boughs. The broken glass on the sidewalk that was so offensive in the light of day shimmered and sparkled under the white light of the pale moon, between drifts of crisp, untouched snow.

Beautiful.

But god damn it, why did it have to be so fucking cold?

Stiles' fingers were so frozen, even through his gloves, that he could barely bend them. The few inches of forehead, nose, and cheek that he couldn't cover with a hat or a scarf (unless he wanted to walk right into one of those charming lampposts) were wind-chapped and stinging. His thighs were already itching and uncomfortable, and it was only going to get worse when he finally got warm.

If he ever got warm. Some nights, he felt like it didn't matter how many blankets he piled on, or how inadvisably high he turned up his little space heater. He'd just always be cold. Forever and ever, amen. And it was only December, he reminded himself, miserably. According to his neighbours, January and February were way worse. If that was truly the case, he wasn't sure he could get through his first Montana winter with all of his toes attached. Which was truly a shame, because he was becoming more protective of his pinky toes with each passing night. He didn't think they'd ever been so close.

As quickly as he could, he took his hands out of his pockets so he could pull down his sleeves, making sure that there wasn't an inch of him exposed that didn't have to be. He shivered and jammed his hands back into the depths of his goose down coat.

"Stupid," he muttered, through numb lips. It'd been stupid to come here, when at home, he would've been...probably complaining about having to wear a hoodie instead of just his shirt. He was a California boy, born and raised. He wasn't built for cold in any kind of way, and he wasn't adjusting as well as he'd hoped.

 _How hard could it be?_ He'd said before he left home. People chose to live in Missoula. Hell, people chose to live in Canada. Living in a place where snow actually stayed on the ground couldn't be that bad.

"Fuck Canada," he spat, then sniffed grossly. Anyone who elected to live there on purpose must be completely insane.

Maybe his whole experience wouldn't have been so miserable if he'd had his dad or his best friend with him. At least he wouldn't be suffering alone. But on top of being cold all the freaking time, he was also more lonely than he'd ever been in his life, including the month in seventh grade he'd been forced to attend summer camp. At least at camp ignoring everyone except the one really interesting looking cook had been a choice he made. Here, if he'd had the time to go out and find some friends, he would have. Maybe.

He slipped in another puddle of wet sludge and slouched harder against the wind. He didn't have to work in the morning. It was a bizarre feeling since he hadn't taken a day off in weeks. He was making a mint, doing overnights and shifts no one else wanted, but he'd started to think it wasn't worth it. While his savings account grew, his spirits diminished.

Usually, he loved Christmas. He used to put out all his mom's festive knick-knacks the moment the Thanksgiving turkey was packed away. Christmas stat holidays meant he actually got to sit and talk with his dad for longer than a lunch hour, even if he did have to work Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve to make up for it, so he looked forward to it like he was one of Santa's elves. This year couldn't be more different. Christmas was almost over and Stiles hadn't felt remotely jolly. He missed his friends too much. And his dad.

He missed Lydia and wished he could be next to her to ask if she was done thinking. Texting wasn't the same, and he'd done as she'd asked and not brought it up while he was away. But it'd been six months since he'd left with her promise that she'd think about giving them a chance, and he thought maybe she was ready. There was a good chance she wasn't, or she'd decided but not in his favour, but at least if he was with her, looking into her eyes, he could ask and be content with the answer. They'd always be friends, and he was happy with that, but he was sure they could be so much more.

The separation was probably good for them. It might be just what Lydia needed to stop seeing him as the kid she grew up with and start seeing him as a guy she could be with. That didn't mean he loved being away from her, though. Or being away from everyone else. The money might be good, but Stiles had found out that working Christmas wasn't  worth it. Someone had to do it, though. Just because it was a holiday didn't mean people wouldn't need police or fire services dispatched.

Five minutes later, Stiles was finally almost home. A few more yards and he'd be out of the wind, if not the cold. Although, his dingy little apartment couldn't really be called home. There was a reason why he was saving so much of what he earned. He definitely wasn't paying the big bucks for accommodation.

"God," he said, out loud, because sometimes he forgot he could still speak when he left his job behind. "I would give anything to be home."

"Anything is a big promise."

Stiles jumped, then slipped on the icy sidewalk, windmilling his arms to keep his balance. When he was on two stable feet, he whipped around and glared at the guy leaning in his doorway.

"What the hell, man?" Stiles demanded. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Apologies," the stranger said. Then he stayed exactly where he was, in front of the last barrier between Stiles and three layers of thick blankets.

"Can I help you?" Stiles snapped, but the effect was somewhat dampened by his chattering teeth.

The man touched his fingers to his chest, raising his eyebrows in a _Who, me?_ sort of expression. "That remains to be seen."

"Okay." Stiles jams his hands deeper into his pockets, straining the fabric of his coat. "Well, until you figure that out, could you maybe move?"

"I suppose." The man's arms had been crossed over his chest, but he moved them just enough that he looked less artlessly cool and more nipple-losing cold. "I was enjoying your doorway quite a bit, actually. The wind is bad tonight."

Stiles sighed deeply, ignoring the cloud of his own breath. The weird dude was only wearing a leather jacket which looked stylish as anything but didn't seem very warm. Everything about him seemed just a little bit shabby and run down. Stiles' chest clenched as he pictured his quiet evening alone in pajamas taken away from him. Later, he'd be ashamed to admit that he seriously considered telling the stranger to fuck off and leave him alone, but as much as he wanted to, the conscience his parents had given him overruled his natural selfishness.

"Do you need a place to get warm?" Stiles asked, not bothering to make himself sound anything less than extremely reluctant. And he sure wasn't going to offer a bed for the night. There were limits to his generosity. It would be stupid of him to offer the couch unless he wanted to wake up with even fewer valuables than he'd had the day before.

"That'd be great, thanks," the man replied, killing Stiles' hope that he was just waiting for an uber or something.

"Oh, yeah. Great. Super great," he griped as he dug his keys out of his jeans pocket. When he had the right one in his hand, he looked up and the guy hadn't moved an inch. "Do you mind?" Stiles asked, jingling the key ring in the direction of the door. It sounded very Christmas-y, actually, which only made him more irritable.

"Certainly." The man drawled, then he turned sideways in the entrance, revealing the lock, but not moving out of the way completely.

Stiles glared and considered pressing the point, but decided it wasn't worth it. If the dude wanted to be childish, that was his problem. Jamming the key into the lock with way too much force and already regretting his decision to help a random stranger, Stiles opened the door with the guy hovering way too close. Shouldering past him, Stiles headed up the stairs, jingling his keys again to find the one for the inner door. He didn't hear the man's feet on the stairs, but if he wanted to hang out down there, that was his prerogative, and Stiles' preference.

"What's your name?" Stiles reached the landing. He could feel his toes beginning to unthaw, which felt good, but also awful because they were starting to burn.

"I'm liking Peter right now."

"Right now?"

"People call me whatever they wish," Peter said, and Stiles jumped because he was suddenly right next to him, so close that Stiles could feel his breath on his ear. "But the name I was born with isn't pronounceable, even by you, Przemyslaw."

Stiles' insides, already cold as well water, froze even more. "How the hell did you know my name?"

Peter smiled, backing up a bit in the small space of the landing. "I looked in your mailbox. It isn't locked. You should get on that, anyone can get into your private business."

"You f--" Stiles' fist clenched around his keys as he stared at Peter, grinding his teeth at Peter's stupid smirk. The dude was creepy as fuck, and Stiles was really regretting inviting him up. If he got robbed or harvested for his organs, his dad was going to be so disappointed in him, even though it was _his_ fault for telling him to have some humanity every once in a while. Look where humanity got him. Cornered in a stairwell by a guy twice his age (and body mass, probably) who really didn't seem to understand boundaries of any kind.

His pepper spray was in his apartment. He kept a canister just inside the door, as well as by his bed, just in case. This whole 'inviting a stranger inside' thing was really not sitting well with him anymore, but he figured his best option was to continue as if everything was normal until he could get to a weapon. Just in case.

"You know that's illegal, right?" Stiles couldn't resist snapping as he unlocked the second door and pushed it open. He plucked the little canister of pepper spray out of the dish, replacing it with his keys before he let Peter past the threshold. Next, he flicked on both of the light switches on the wall, then turned around quickly so his back was to the wall.

"Probably," Peter drawled, nonchalantly looking around the living room. He unzipped his jacket, straightening the collar, and Stiles frowned. In the glow of the moon and the street lamps, Peter's clothes had looked so worn and thin. Now, under Stiles' fluorescent light bulbs, they looked...fine. Like new, and definitely well-fitting.

Stiles shook his head dismissing that, while at the same time remembering how quiet Peter's footsteps had been on the stairs. "Definitely. It's a thing, you can't go through--"

"I don't need to go through your things to know who you are." Peter stopped walking around the room. He was utterly, unnaturally still, pinning Stiles to the floor with his eyes. "Stiles Stilinski. Born in Beacon Hills, California to Claudia and John Stilinski. Graduated high school one grade point behind your biggest crush, but only because you flunked your last English test on purpose. Your favourite food is pickled beets because you like the way it makes your hands look like they're covered in blood. You never had a childhood pet and you feel a little guilty that you don't want one."

Stiles took a stumbling step back, banging painfully into the table by the door.

"What the--fuck?" Stiles stuttered, the saliva evaporating from his mouth. "Is this--Is this some kind of Sherlock Holmes deduction bullshit? You know all that just from looking through my Facebook or something?"

Between one panicked blink and the next, Peter was in his face, using Stiles' unbalanced stance to look down at him, a slash of a smirk quirking his lips.

"You wet the bed at least once a week until you were twelve and a half," Peter drawled, his grin widening at Stiles' shocked gurgle. "But you never told your father because he hadn't crawled out of the bottom of a bottle yet."

"Who the fuck are you?" Stiles croaked. He pushed away from the table and put as much distance as he could between him and Peter, backing away until he hit the arm of his couch. "How the hell did you know that? How did you get in my head?"

He'd never told anyone those things, not even Scott or Lydia. He wasn't a secretive or particularly private person, but even he had things he didn't want anyone to know. How could this stranger have guessed so accurately? He eyed Peter, feeling his breath speeding up past what was healthy, but unable to stop the flood of adrenaline.

"Calm down," Peter said, then he snapped his fingers. The weight sitting on Stiles' chest lifted, and he took a full, deep breath, then another. He was still confused and wary, but the panic had simply melted away, leaving his head clear.

"What did you just do?" Stiles burst out, his anger bubbling up in place of the anxiety, "Are you going to answer any of my questions?"

"I would if you'd stop asking them," Peter came back with, instantly.  

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, then closed it when Peter quirked an eyebrow and raised a chiding finger. Neither of them said anything for a few moments while Stiles swallowed his retort, then Stiles said, simply, "Talk."

"I told you my name." Peter sauntered a few steps, then stood in front of the little table by the door and started pawing the contents of the bowl. He fingered the keys, coins and bits of forgotten minutiae. "One of them."

"Yes? And? That doesn't tell me anything. How--"

"How did I know those things?" He picked out a quarter from the dish and flicked it in the air, catching it and flipping it again without even looking. "The same way I know that you felt happy when your chemistry teacher was hit by a car. I know all your deepest darkest secrets." He grinned suddenly and spread his arms wide. "Like Santa Claus! You're on the naughty list this year, I bet."

Stiles gripped the pepper spray tighter in his fist. "Santa Claus isn't real."

"But I am."

Peter snapped his fingers again. A pulse of energy rippled out of him and he changed. His eyes turned red, his nails grew long and pointed and dark horns appeared above his hairline, four inches long and deadly sharp. Shallow blue flames ghosted across the shoulders of his jacket, like epaulettes of fire.

" _Fuck_ ," Stiles yelled, clutching the arm of the couch behind him. "You--You're the--"

"'The devil' is probably the word you're looking for." The quarter reappeared from nowhere, and Peter rolled it between his clawed thumb and forefinger. "Though it's a pretty vague description, if you ask me. I liked how the Greeks did it, honestly. Lord of the Underworld leaves very little to the imagination, doesn't it? Why didn't that one stick, I wonder?"

Stiles couldn't find his voice to answer the question. It was pretty clear that it was rhetorical, but after a few moments of rebooting, Stiles' eyes narrowed and the implications of Peter's presence sunk in.

"Wait. This isn't even a Christian holiday, it's based on pagan--"

Peter scoffed, brushing some stray ash from the sleeve of his leather jacket. "Oh, come on. You think I give a shit about that? This isn't about the festive season. This is about you, Stiles."

"Am I high on something? Am I dreaming?" Maybe he'd frozen to death on his way home and he hadn't figured it out yet. That seemed way more plausible than _Satan himself_ showing up in his dingy living room.

"Does it feel like you're dreaming?"

"Well, no. But I had one about Emma Watson the other night that was pretty realistic at the time, so--"

With another snap of Peter's fingers, the floor turned from dark brown to molten red, bubbling and swirling like…lava? With a shout, Stiles leapt backward over the arm of the couch, landing on his back on the cushions. He scrambled to take off his boots to save his feet, but when he grabbed one in his hands, it was cool to the touch. The rubber was still smoking, but it was completely undamaged.

In the next second, Stiles was pinned to the couch by bony, unyielding limbs, and Peter's face was only inches from his.

"Look." Peter dragged Stiles' arm up in between their faces and spread Stiles' fingers out roughly. "Count your fingers."

"What? Why?" Stiles felt like his eyes were going to bug out of his face at any second.  

"Just do it," Peter hissed.

"Five, there's five!" Stiles yelped, alarmed by the flare of scarlet flames in Peter's dark eyes. "Four fingers, one thumb."

As quickly as he'd tackled him, Peter released him, standing up and tugging the hem of his shirt into place. "There you have it then. In dreams, it's common to have more fingers than normal. Look it up, it's true."

Stiles actually...remembered reading that. In a Wikipedia article about lucid dreaming. He wanted to pull out his phone and google it since that was probably a more credible source than _the actual Devil_ , but he also didn't want to offend Peter by ignoring him while he Wiki-walked.

"Now, look at your watch," Peter told him. "What does it say?"

"6:47."

"That's another thing you can't do in dreams." Stiles' confusion must have shown on his face because Peter rolled his eyes. "Read numbers."

"Oh." Stiles fiddled with his watch, the one he'd been trying to break the habit of wearing since he mostly just looked at his phone anyway. It was habit for him to just slap it on his wrist after his shower, and he always tsked at himself when he forgot, because he was stuck in his routine. Day after day, he did the same, dull things and felt smaller and more insignificant every night that he went to bed with the watch still on his wrist, and his schedule set in stone.

Jesus Christ, would he love to be bored right now.

"Speaking of which," Peter said, and Stiles flinched when he clapped his hands like he was about to tuck into a big meal. "We're wasting time. California is an hour behind us, so it's almost six o'clock at your destination. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

"What. Business," Stiles gritted out. He'd been tired before he got home, but now he was exhausted, but on a knife's edge at the same time. "What do you want from me?"

Peter put his hands over his heart, wounded. "I don't want anything from you. The only thing I want to do is make you an offer--"

"That I can't refuse?"

"Shut up, Stiles, Daddy's talking."

 _Snap_. Stiles' lips closed like they were magnetized to each other. And stayed that way. He only wasted a few seconds trying to pry them apart before giving up and looking balefully up at Peter. It was a good thing his magical anxiety meds were still working, or Peter wouldn't be smirking so smugly.

"The thing is..." Peter blinked across the room again, crouching down next to Stiles and looking at him like he was a particularly dim kindergartner. "I'm going to lay it all out for you, and when I'm done, you won't want to refuse. I promise."

Peter backed up into the wider part of the living room. A bigger stage for his drama, Stiles thought, bitterly.

"I'm going to send you back home for one night. You can spend the evening of Christmas with your family and friends, being merry and getting drunk on eggnog in the spirit of togetherness. I really can't think of any other reason why anyone would drink that crap. Yuck."  

Peter shuddered, and Stiles sat, mute, but bursting with questions.

"It'll be great," Peter continued. "I provide the means, and you set the itinerary. Cook for your father. See your old pals and your little girlfriend. All you have to do is follow a few simple rules."

Peter tossed the quarter in the air, and when he caught it, it wasn't a coin anymore. He snatched a short stick out of the air that he immediately telescoped out longer. It was a pointer, the same colour as the coin, with a glinting crimson jewel at the tip. He brandished it to the left, and where he pointed, words started to appear, like an invisible hand was writing them on an equally invisible whiteboard.

"Number one." Peter whipped the pointer to the first bullet point with a _thwip._ "Be back by dawn. That'll be about 8 am Montana time. With me so far?"

He seemed to be waiting for an actual answer, so Stiles nodded jerkily.

"Number two. Don’t swear." He grinned at Stiles' incredulous look. "Call me old-fashioned, but I need you to keep it clean, completely G-rated. If you're wondering whether or not whatever you're about to say counts as a swear, assume that it does. It's harder than you'd think, but doable. Get it? Got it?" Stiles nodded again. "Good. Next and last. Don’t touch your phone."

It felt the same as an itchy nose when his hands were full. Quite suddenly, Stiles wanted nothing more than to pull his phone out of his pocket and hold it protectively. He was still reeling from...everything...and he was way too smart to actually consider what Peter was offering, but on an instinctual level, he was as protective over his pocket-sized computer as he would be over his first-born child, if he had one. He grabbed his pant leg underneath the distinct square where the fabric had gone white from holding the phone, eyeing Peter apprehensively.

Peter rolled his eyes, then apparently decided that Stiles had had a long enough timeout. He strode over and unstuck Stiles' mouth by peeling off a strip of invisible tape with a single decisive yank. It turned out that metaphysical tape hurt just as much as actual tape when it got pulled off delicate skin.

After he was finished screaming internally, Stiles looked up at Peter's innocent face, seething and just as confused as he had been when he'd found a stranger in his door. "My phone? That's oddly specific."

Peter shrugged. "We used to have this thing with crosses and holy objects, but it's getting easier and easier to go entire days without encountering a single rosary. So we had to come up with another way to make it a bit of a challenge. If I'm going to be honest with you, Stiles, I don't think that'll be the one that gives you trouble."

Stiles slumped and put his head in his hands. Peter was talking about it like it was a done deal, but Stiles wasn't stupid. He knew how these things went. It never ended well for the person who made the deal, unless the devil they were dealing with made some kind of pedantic error in the contract, and somehow, Stiles didn't think Peter would let something like that slip past him. Stiles would be the one up shit creek at the end, so he wasn't going to fall for Peter's trick, the oldest one in the book. Definitely not.

"What's the catch?" Stiles blurted before he could stop himself.

Peter made a dismissive noise, and the blue fire on his jacket twitched in response. "Oh, that. Well, if you fail, you owe me something."

"What would I owe you?" _Stop, Stiles, stop,_ he told himself, but a small, reckless part of him needed to know.

A different sort of smile curled Peter's lips. It wasn't a smirk, or a friendly, fake grin meant to charm. There was a malicious glee in this smile, that matched the ecstatic leaping of the flame on Peter's shoulders and in his red eyes.  

"That's the fun part," Peter said, low and filled with more meaning than what was on the surface. He crouched down in front of Stiles, then shortened the pointer he still had with a menacing _snick_. "Whatever I want. It could be a ride to the airport. A year in servitude. Your soul. Your life. Whatever I choose, you'd be powerless to do anything but give it to me."

Stiles swallowed hard, forcing himself to look in Peter's eyes instead of on the razor sharp claws that held the silver stick with its deep red ruby glinting like fresh blood. "That doesn't sound like a good deal."

"It's a risk, I'll give you that. I could show up on New Year's Eve and ask you to be my designated driver, and your debt would be paid. But there's always the chance that I'll want something else from you. Something that isn't nearly so painless. But that's only if you fail. If you can just get through tonight without swearing, keep your iphone in your pocket, and get back before eight, you'll have gotten a great deal. The best deal."

"See, that right there is why it doesn't make sense. Why should you give me a deal that's so stacked in my favour? You have no reason to make it easy for me unless you have an ulterior motive."

"I usually have at least three ulterior motives for any given thing I do," Peter drawled, then he sighed and sat down on the couch next to Stiles, sprawling out over as much of it as he could, comfy as anything and ignoring Stiles' unease. "I'll level with you. You've got a classic tale. Small town kid with a close-knit circle of people he cares about leaves for the big city to make his fortune, then ends up stranded, alone and miserable when he most wants to be with them. It's like a Lifetime movie, and I'm a sucker for a good storyline."

"Right," Stiles said, warily. His lips were still tingling from getting unstuck.

"And I know you probably don't care, but my relationship with my family is--" Peter shifted, looking less than completely self-assured for the first time that night. "It's tense. As you might guess. The holidays aren't what they used to be when we were as close as you are to your father or Scott."

Peter's eyes got a faraway look in them, and Stiles had to guess that Peter's concept of "far away" was a lot different from his. There was no brooding anti-hero frown--Peter was far too subtle for that--but there was a slight softening of his cutting, yet laid-back personality that made it easy for Stiles to picture how Peter might have been around his family, millennia ago.

 _What the hell is this?_ He thought abruptly. _Am I actually sympathizing with the devil?_

"So," Peter said. Stiles saw him snap back to the present without moving more than an inch. "Like I said. Inspiring. So I want to help you get what I can't. All you have to do is stay within my parameters. I don't think that's too much to ask."

Peter crossed his leg over his knee, dangling his surprisingly plain black shoe next to Stiles' thigh. Stiles supposed there was only so much more flash even Peter could get away with when his snazzy leather jacket had embellishments made of fire. Stiles' eyes were drawn to the back of the couch, where the blue flames were flickering up the cushions but not leaving any marks.

The silence trickled out into the room while Peter swished his foot lazily in the air and Stiles' mind raced. He knew it was idiotic, but that didn't change the fact that he was sort of...considering saying yes. Or that wasn't quite right. He was considering what could happen if he said yes.

A lot could go wrong. Everything could go wrong. He could end up as a non-corporeal spirit drowning in a lake of hellfire for the rest of eternity, or something equally as horrifying. Or, if Peter was to be believed, he could have to order pizza for Peter's next rager. If Peter had ragers. Who would he even have ragers with? Who came to the devil's house party? Normal people? Or were there other supernatural beings who didn't mind if Peter's place smelled like ash and brimstone? Stiles was a little dizzy from how fast his worldview was getting expanded.

It was an incalculably huge risk, which was what made it so moronic that Stiles was giving it any thought at all. What was wrong with him? He didn't take risks. He didn't text while driving or drink milk from the fridge that was a couple days past the expiry, even though it smelled perfectly fine. He would never have thought that he'd be tempted by something so obviously--"

"Wait. How do I know you aren't putting me under some kind of spell?" Stiles demanded. "You could be making me think I'm getting a good deal when in reality I'm getting fleeced."

He snapped in the air in front of Peter's face a few times, like Peter had when he'd turned the floor into lava, feeling more bold that was advisable. It didn't have nearly the same effect--or volume--as when Peter did it. Peter chuckled. Not even a dark, sinister chuckle, just...a pleased kind of titter.

"You don't miss much, do you?" Peter said, sounding reluctantly impressed. "That's a valid point. Come here, Stiles."

Stiles turned on the couch, then pushed Peter's foot out of the way so he could crawl into his lap. He sank lower, melting into Peter's front, ducking his head down to--

 _Snap_ _._ Stiles recoiled, leaping up and away, putting as much distance as he could between them.

"What the everloving _fuck--_ _"_ He yelled, frantically rubbing away the feeling of Peter's abnormally warm body from his stomach and thighs. "I just--You made me--"

"Yes, I did," Peter said, smoothing out unseen wrinkles in his pants, then he met Stiles' wide, frantic eyes calmly. "Now you see the difference. You're not under the influence of anything other than Adderall. I know it'd be foolish to ask you to trust me, but I don't like to rely on trickery to get people to do what I want. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

Obviously, Peter liked to just pull people's strings instead, and watch them dance to his tune. Stiles stopped swiping at his pant leg and crossed his arms instead, turning away from Peter like that would make him disappear. Unfortunately, that meant that he was looking right at the corner of his living room at the dainty apartment-sized tree with tiny twinkling ornaments that he'd put up almost by accident. He'd been telling himself for the past month to put it away since it only depressed him whenever he saw it, but he couldn't make himself move it, even though it looked like Charlie Brown's pitiful tree, pre-makeover.

Stiles had a problem. His problem was that he was dancing helplessly on Peter's strings, cha-cha-sliding closer and closer to saying yes. He couldn't even deny it anymore. He was falling for it, hook, line, and sinker. Peter hadn't even done that great of a sales pitch. Stiles had done most of the work for him by being lonely and morose at the most wonderful time of the year, missing the people he'd left being in Beacon Hills like he'd miss half of his body. He wanted so badly to see them, just for a few hours, to remind himself that he wasn't the last boy left on Earth and that at least _someone_ cared about him, even if no one in this city did.

He knew it was a bad idea. He was positive it was a colossally stupid idea, but that didn't make it any less tempting. Just a few hours to charge up on affection, at the cost of a few simple tasks. He could keep it short, keep it clean and keep his phone in his pocket for one night. Right?

"So, what's it going to be, Stiles?" Peter said from five inches away from Stiles' ear.  

"Would you stop doing that?" Stiles snapped, his heart pounding. "Jesus, I didn't know a lack of a personal bubble came with the territory with the horns and the tail. Wait, do you have a tail?"

Peter was unfazed by Stiles' insults. He started walking slowly in a circle around Stiles, like a cat considering the final blow to a trapped mouse. "Your time is ticking away, young man. Christmas will be over before you know it. And a warning: this is a one time offer. I won't make it again for New Year's Eve or Easter, or goddamn Groundhog Day if you chicken out tonight. It's now or never." He ended up right in front of Stiles, his blazing eyes boring into Stiles'. "Do you want to see your family or not?"

He did. He absolutely did. Enough that he was willing to throw all self-preservation to the wind on the slim chance that he might actually succeed in getting through the night with Peter's rules unbroken.

"Fine," he croaked, a part of him already hating himself for it, while the rest of him quivered with excitement. "I'll take the deal. Send me home."

Peter smiled, showing all his sharp, gleaming white teeth. "I'm so glad to hear that," he purred. "You won't regret it. Unless you do. Which could happen, but we'll deal with that when we come to it."

"Yeah, whatever," Stiles said, but his stomach swooped with nerves. "So, how do we do this? How am I getting to Cali?"

"That's easy." Peter waved a dismissive hand, then turned on his heel, all but bouncing toward the door and flinging it open. "You'll fly there," he tossed off as he headed down the stairs.

"Um." Stiles followed, grabbing his coat and jamming his hands into the sleeves, stumbling after Peter. "If it was as easy as just getting on a plane, I would've done it myself."

He'd made the decision not to go home and to make extra holiday pay a couple months earlier when he'd been overly optimistic about how much he'd want to be home. A few weeks ago, he'd looked into the possibility of changing his mind, but an affordable flight was impossible to get and his supervisor had laughed him out of her office when he asked if he could have a few days off.

"I didn't mention any planes," Peter called, just as the outer door shut behind him.

"Hey, wait!" Stiles nearly fell down the stairs rushing the rest of the way, but when we burst out into the frigid air, he couldn't see a living soul for blocks. "Where are you going? I thought we had a deal!"

"We do."

Stiles jumped and looked to the right. Peter was standing at the entrance to the alley next to Stiles's building, the one that led to the garage.

"Aren't you coming?" Peter said, his smile smug and provoking.

"Yeah," Stiles said, his breath fogging the air. His hands were already freezing off, and he wanted to get into the garage before he lost them to frostbite. That was a thing he'd read could happen in Montana. He followed Peter down the dark alley, wondering what his dad would say if he was there. Nothing good, probably.

Stiles only shared the garage with one other neighbour, so it also doubled as a toolshed for his landlord. Peter held the door open for him, then closed it behind them, ignoring how Stiles looked at the gardening shears and sharp-looking screwdrivers with unease.

"Well, this is it. The moment we part ways." Peter patted the hood of Stiles' jeep. "It's been a pleasure, I have to tell you."

Stiles flinched at how close Peter's claws came to nicking his baby's paint job. "But you haven't--"

"Yes, yes, we'll get to that," Peter said impatiently. "I'm just saying that if you make it through the night without breaking my rules, there's no reason for me to see you ever again. If you don't, then that's another story. But there's a possibility that this is the last time you'll see my face. I'll bet you're sad to see the back of me."

"Yeah. Real choked up."

"I thought as much. Where are your keys?"

"Uh," Stiles patted his pockets, but he knew they were in the bowl upstairs. "Give me a sec--"

Peter sighed. "Nevermind." He snapped and the keys popped into his palm. Stiles shivered from the reminder that Peter seemed to be the real deal. The longer they went without Peter showing off, the easier it was to believe that he was just a crazy dude playing out his delusions with a gullible stranger.

Peter dangled the keys in front of him, holding the silver one for the jeep between his thumb and forefinger. It was familiar, even though Stiles hadn't used it in weeks. He left the jeep in the garage 90% of the time since he was close enough to his job--a 20 minute walk--that it didn't make sense to pay for parking every day. The only reason he had it and didn't just make do with a bus pass was because he'd driven it from Beacon Hills to Montana after he'd finished school. It had all seemed so exciting back then. On his own for real, buying furniture and his own groceries, starting his life as a full-fledged adult with no one but himself to fall back on. It was still exciting, in a way. He liked being independent. He just wished he could be independent a little closer to home.

Making up his mind for the fifth time in as many minutes, Stiles reached for the keys, only to have them snatched away.

"One more thing," Peter said easily. "We have to formally seal the deal."

Stiles swallowed. "How?"

"I think you know." Peter stepped forward and Stiles automatically moved away. Peter backed him up against his neighbour's Honda, not pressing against him right away, but caging him in with his arms all the same. Stiles knew where this was going, but he didn't have to like it.

"Do we have to?" Stiles whined. "I mean, seriously? A contractually binding kiss? That's just so...biblical."

Peter tipped his head to the side, considering. "No, I suppose we don't _have_ to. But the other way involves cutting open a hand, so this is just a lot easier."

Stiles shuddered, but he'd be lying to himself if he said it was just because the thought of blood disturbed him. This close to Peter, he could feel his warmth radiating off him. It wasn't a normal amount of heat. It was as if Stiles was standing next to the coils of an oven, getting toasty and a little sleepy just from the proximity.

Stiles hadn't felt that kind of fever in so long. He'd forgotten what it felt like to feel the soft press of Lydia's hip against his as they waited for Scott to get a move on, or the tickling warmth of sharing the armrest with her in a movie theatre. It was so easy to disregard all those things when he was so many miles away from her. He'd always been a tactile kind of guy, but he hadn't realized just how touch starved he was until he was standing here, inches away from evil incarnate and torn between wanting to squirm away to safety and wanting to curl his hands in the collar of Peter's jacket and see if he got burned.

"Fine, I guess," Stiles muttered, but Peter smiled like he knew how fast Stiles' heart was beating.

He hadn't been expecting a chaste peck on the lips. Peter didn't seem the type to buss a cheek like a sweet grandmother who drank too much brandy on Christmas Eve. But he certainly hadn't been expecting Peter to dive into the kiss with quite so much intensity. It was a good kiss, too, with just the right amount of open-mouthed softness and pointed-fang hardness. Peter finally shoved Stiles the rest of the way against the Audi, crowding him in and pressing him against unyielding surfaces on both sides.

Instinctually, Stiles' hands flew to Peter's shoulders and gripped hard, but instead of burning him, the blue flames only enveloped his hands in their light, and he felt the most delicious heat he'd ever experienced. His hands hadn't been so thawed out since the first time the temperature in Montana had dipped below freezing.

The kiss ended as abruptly as it started, and Stiles was cold again, but he had the keys in his palm. The deal was done. No going back now.

"Tick tock," Peter said, leaning in the entrance to the garage like he'd done in Stiles' front door when this whole thing had started. It seemed like hours ago.

"So, how does this work?" Stiles asked, then he cleared the huskiness out of his throat. "I can drive stick, but if you were serious about flying--"

Peter shook his head. "Don't worry, it drives itself. Head west, it'll know the way, and don't worry about people seeing you. I've fixed that too."

"Sure," Stiles said, trying not to be skeptical. Peter had fulfilled his every expectation so far, so this one couldn't be too different. "Well, I guess I'll just...go?"

Peter watched him go in silence, unmoving from the drafty open door. Stiles got in the jeep, wincing at the creak of the rusty door hinges. The thing was on its last legs for sure. He hadn't thought it would make it back to California one more time, but fate seemed to have vetoed that plan.

After a deep breath in and out, he stuck the key into the ignition, turned it, and felt a quiver of something far more alive than the vibrations of the engine. He fumbled with the garage door opener pinned to the visor but managed to push it and set the machine chugging away. He reversed out of his parking spot the same way he always did, and it didn't feel any different.

It was only when he chanced one last look at Peter right before he drove down the laneway that he fully clued in that he was starting a trip that wasn't at all normal. In his rearview mirror, Peter's eyes were reflective like an animal's. Stiles only saw them for a split second because then Peter lifted his hand and snapped again and was gone.

At the same moment, the jeep's front wheels lifted and the whole vehicle jerked into the air. Stiles' hands were white on the steering wheel, but it responded to his direction when he turned it clockwise. He was pretty sure that was where west was, but it was likely he'd know fairly quickly if it wasn't.

The jeep rose higher and higher as it sped away, but when it finally levelled out and Stiles didn't feel so much like he was going to throw up, he could see that the city was actually pretty from so far above it. The lines of lit streets made nice patterns, and he could even see bits of colour from particularly festive houses.

After a few minutes of managing not to die in a fiery crash, Stiles relaxed a bit, loosening his white grip on the steering wheel. Flying a pseudo-aircraft wasn't anything like video games had taught him it would be but it was close enough to normal driving that he started to think that maybe he had made the best choice.

"Remember my rules, Stiles," Peter's voice murmured in his ear. Stiles whipped his head around, but he was alone in the car. He had no choice but to listen to whatever Peter had to say. "No swearing, no phone, and be back before dawn."

"I _know_ , now would you cut it out?" Stiles yelled to the empty car. He could feel Peter's warm, damp breath on his neck and ear, and it was sending shivers down his spine.

"Fine, fine." Peter sighed and Stiles nearly dipped into a tree he flinched so hard. "I'll see you when I see you. Don't have too much fun without me."

Then he was gone and Stiles was left alone to make the journey back to California. He felt like he was going very fast, though his speedometer was still at zero, and Missoula was disappearing from his side mirrors. He checked his watch. Right now he still had hours before Christmas was over, but he had no idea how long it would take him to get there. A lightbulb in his head flashed on and he reached for his pocket; He could throw on Google Maps and know exactly how to get there and how long it would take--

His hand froze with his fingers just inside his front pocket. His phone. He wasn't allowed to touch it.

"Fu---" He choked, panicked hard, then fumbled, "--ugeddabout it. Don't need that phone, no siree."  

Was he allowed to swear in his head? Because he felt like he needed to. Sweet Susie Brown, he hadn't even made it 15 minutes before nearly breaking two of Peter's rules. He needed to get his burrito stuffing together. And he needed to stop trying to replace swear words with things because he sounded stupid even to himself.

This was an incredible opportunity...if it was actually for real. He still hadn't completely ruled out that he was in the middle of an LSD trip worthy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, only cleaner and a lot more jolly. And if he really wasn't hallucinating and he wasn't going to wake up the next day in his garage covered in vomit and glitter, he needed to stick to the rules. He couldn't forget them for a single minute.

No swearing. No phone. Be back before dawn. He could do it.

The world below him flew by. He was pretty sure he'd already left behind the vast swathe of national forest that connected Montana with Idaho, and things were starting to look a lot more desert-y. He'd probably be clearing Nevada in no time. He let himself enjoy the ride some more, sinking into his seat and peering down at the landscape rushing under him.

He smiled when he saw the unmistakable progress of a train going fast, but nowhere near as fast as he was. He grinned and allowed himself a moment of dorky revelling. He'd never felt more like Harry Potter in his life, travelling by flying blue car toward the place he loved most in the world.

His phone started buzzing in his pocket. It was probably his dad, checking in after his Christmas day shift was over. He let it go to voicemail since he was no fool. It rang again, then after it stopped, it vibrated once with a text, then fell silent. His dad was probably worried about him since they'd made plans to call while they opened each other's gifts. Stiles slumped when he realized he'd left his on the kitchen counter back in Missoula, still in the packaging. He'd been a good boy and not opened his present early, but he was regretting it now.

He couldn't stay disappointed for long, though. He was going _home_. His dad was going to be so surprised and happy to see him. He started rehearsing what their reunion might be like, but then he got distracted thinking about a different reunion.

Lydia was going to be just as happy as his dad. They were each other's best friends--Scott didn't count, they were forever bros--and they got each other in a way no one either of them had ever met ever could. Regardless of what else Stiles felt, he couldn't wait to see her again simply to have an intelligent conversation with a person who understood most of his references.

Stiles was a big believer of empirical evidence. Before today, he'd never given a thought to whether there might actually be a higher power, or magic in the world beyond magnets and poptarts cooked exactly long enough. But now, after Peter's big reveal...it was suddenly easy to believe in what he'd always felt, but never admitted to himself: He and Lydia were meant to be together. It was fate or divine intervention.  

When he found her, after seeing his dad, and probably Scott, he was going to ask her. She'd asked for time, and he'd given it to her, months of it. He'd been building up his courage since she'd given him hope just before he'd left California, and it felt like now or never.

Stiles watched the lights of the next city draw closer and smiled. Nearly there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter...soon. For once I don't have an exact date because the final chapter is still being written. But likely within a few days. The story will have either 5 chapters or 3, I haven't made up my mind yet. 
> 
> ETA: Welp, apparently boxing day isn't a thing in the US. Who knew? Don't mind me, just removing that...
> 
> Dub-con warning: Peter puts Stiles under a thrall for a few seconds and makes him climb into his lap. Stiles nearly kisses him, but Peter stops it before it gets that far. Peter does this to try to show Stiles that he isn't under the influence of any spells. And also to be an asshole.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles had barely opened the door before he was inhaling the laundry detergent and old spice smell of his dad's shirt. They hugged each other hard, crushing the strange melancholy away. It was hard to let go because it was so temporary. Stiles knew that even though he was here, and so happy to be, it would end sooner than he was prepared for.

He tried his best to shake those thoughts off and enjoy the time he had. It was seven o'clock in California. It'd taken a little under an hour to travel over 1000 miles, which was absolutely insane. Impossible, really, with the technology usually at his disposal. That meant that he had until six o'clock the next morning before he really needed to get on the road--or in the air, whichever.) Thinking of the bad parts before they happened wouldn't get him anywhere.

Stiles' dad gave him a final, rough squeeze, then held him at arm's length. "What the hell are you doing here?" the Sheriff demanded, his voice suspiciously gravelly.

"Surprise," Stiles said, his face sore from smiling so wide. 

"It sure is." The Sheriff huffed a disbelieving laugh, then remembered where they were and opened to door wide. "Come in, come in. Where's your suitcase?" His eyes narrowed and he peered behind him to the driveway. "Where's your car?"

"I took a bus from the airport," he lied, smoothly. He'd prepared his cover story somewhere over Los Angeles, and he'd repeated it so many times in his head that he almost believed it himself. "I love that piece of--scrap metal, but I don't trust it as far as I can throw it. Besides, I'm not actually staying. I'm only passing through."

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, letting his dad steer him by the back of his neck to the kitchen table.

"Passing through," his dad said doubtfully as they sat in the creaky wooden chairs. "From Montana. On your way to where? Hawaii?"

Stiles made up a story about his work needing someone to go to a poorly timed conference in Oregon. He could tell his dad was skeptical--which was good, because if he wasn't, Stiles would've worried--but luckily, he didn't push it.

It was like he was a kid again. The two of them, sitting at the table, waiting for dinner to be ready or for another brainwave about a case his dad was working on, whether it was a stolen tricycle or a B & E. It was weird how much they didn't talk about how different Stiles' life was. They mostly talked about things that had stayed the same, and the things they'd always talked about before.

After half an hour of chatting, Stiles realized that he hadn't eaten dinner yet. He'd meant to order take out as soon as he got back to his apartment after work, but obviously, that'd been derailed. He got up and opened the fridge, peering inside for something quick he could scavenge. The shelves were suspiciously empty, save for some milk and a wide array of condiments, including two kinds of hot sauce and about five bottles of salad dressing of different varieties, each with only a couple tablespoons missing. 

He opened the freezer next, already knowing what he'd find there, and he was, unfortunately, right. There were stacks and stacks of Hungry Man dinners, with a few paltry Lean Cuisine tucked in the back.

"Dad," Stiles said, disappointment curling in his gut. "Come on. You promised you'd eat healthy when I left. You told me not to worry. How is this considered eating healthy?"

"They were on sale, Stiles," his dad said, holding up his hands apologetically, but still smiling like it wasn't a big deal. "They were basically giving them away, I couldn't pass that up."

"And when ice cream goes on sale do you buy 10 cartons of that and stick them in the freezer?" He retorted, crossing his arms. "Just because they're on sale doesn't mean you should buy them."

The Sheriff rolled his eyes at the old argument. "I don't have one every meal, just whenever I'm too tired to cook."

"And how often is that? Three times a week? Four? Five?" He sank back into his chair, his stomach churning from more than hunger. "Those things are toxic, Dad, you shouldn't eat them. If you plan ahead and make something on your day off, you could have a square meal just as quickly as--"

"I know, you've told me." His dad's jaw set in the mulish jut Stiles had learned not to argue with. "I just never want to cook on the days I'm not busting my ass for the department. You can understand that, right? I'll get better at cooking when I'm retired, don't worry about me."

Stiles wasn't a paragon of virtue when it came to diet. His last two years of college, though, he'd started to notice that his metabolism wasn't working as hard as it used to, and after that, he'd gotten better. It was weird that just about the time when he realized that he was adult who could have cake for dinner whenever he wanted, he also realized why that was a terrible idea.

"I get it, Dad. I just--" He slumped forward on the table, tracing his finger along the gouge in the wood where he'd tried to cut a piece of watermelon for himself when he was seven. "I want to make sure you're still kicking when you're 65. Could you just try, please? At least say you'll try, so when I go back to Montana, I can hold on to that." 

"Of course I will," his dad said, in the confident, easy way he always did, and it wasn't a lie. He _would_ try. Just not very hard. Despite having lived in California for most of his adult life, his dad was no hippie. He'd grown up in a city not unlike the one Stiles was currently living in, in a time when an avocado was as elusive as a four leaf clover. Stiles' father's father had grown up eating Depression food and had taught his son to eat the same things, who, in turn, tried to teach his own son. That didn't work, obviously, partly because of Stiles' mother's influence and partly because Stiles had had access to the internet from a pretty young age, and a curious streak that made him unable to accept that dry meatloaf was the be-all end-all of North American cuisine.

Stiles' dad didn't have any particular emotional attachment to the food of his youth--Stiles had tested this by trying to recreate his some of his grandparents' specialties, and while it hadn't fallen flat, it certainly hadn't gotten any exceptional reaction--but he was a creature of habit. Stiles could email his dad a new crazy, delicious recipe every day, and he'd still prefer a cheese sandwich. A few lonely cans of peas or potatoes could still be found in the Stilinski pantry, way past their expiry date, but still hanging in there because that was what John Stilinski had always done.

"Okay, Dad," Stiles said because there wasn't any point in beating a dead, heart-diseased horse. He'd just get frustrated in the process by how his dad didn't take it seriously, even though he knew how much Stiles worried about him. He'd never understood why he did, and Stiles hadn't been able to explain it to him because it seemed so obvious. They were each other's last living relative if they didn't count Scott--which they usually did, to be fair. Maybe Stiles would understand better when he was older, but he couldn't help but feel like he cared more about their future than his dad did. Stiles spent whole nights worrying about how he'd handle the inevitable reality of being alone in the world.

He wondered what it said about him that he always forgot to include Lydia and Scott in his bleak future fantasies. As much as he loved them, and knew they loved him, he couldn't help but think that their loss was just as unavoidable as death and taxes and iTunes updates.

 _Such warm and fuzzy thoughts_ , Stiles grumbled to himself.

"Anyway," he said, trying to get his good mood back on track. He was still in Beacon Hills, it was still Christmas, and he was happy, despite his dad's lack of concern for his own well-being. "Is CSI: Miami still airing?"

"I wouldn't know," the Sheriff said, with the same bemused smile he always wore when he tried to decipher Stiles' non-sequiturs.

"Cool. Cool, cool." Stiles drummed his fingers against the table, wondering when these awkward pauses had become a regular part of their interaction--and how he'd managed to forget them when he was away.

"So, when are you going to start putting that degree to use?"

And there it was. The other thing Stiles seemed to forget, even though the question came up about once a month during their phone calls. And not only that particular question. He managed to erase from his mind how skilled his dad was at managing to take a perfectly ordinary and pleasant conversation, then twist it around to make Stiles feel guilty about something.

"Dad." Stiles sent him an imploring look across the table, and his dad held up his hands defensively.

"I just hate to see you waste four years of hard work, that's all."

Computer programming had seemed like a valid choice when Stiles was on the verge of graduating with no clue what he wanted to do with his life. His friend Danny had made a ton of money in high school with side projects, and Stiles was just as good at it, if not better. So he'd followed the money, instead of his dreams. An easy choice, when he didn't have an inkling of a dream to follow. He still didn't, but one thing he did know was that he didn't care a single iota about computer programming, and couldn't bear to contemplate doing it for the rest of his life.

It was like a puzzle that was boring once he'd cracked it. Like the Rubik's cube he'd had in seventh grade that he spent a month learning how to solve in under a minute then allowed to gather dust on a shelf because the challenge had been the only fun part. He never liked his new job as a dispatcher in the first place. He'd hoped it would be rewarding since it promised to be different every day, but it only turned out to be mentally taxing. But he came all the way to Montana for it, so he felt like he couldn't quit and move home so easily, not when his dad would be waiting with an _I told you so_. He went to work every day and he was bored, the same way he was bored by his degree. He only stayed because it made him a lot of money and it was at least better than the field he'd trained for.

It was just another thing his dad couldn't seem to understand, and it stung a little more each time the band-aid was ripped off the slowly healing cut that was his wrong choices. 

"Well, I don't feel like it was wasted," he said, then he got up from the table, needing to pace to keep his voice even. "And since I paid for it myself, and I was the one who did the work, the good news is that it actually doesn't affect you in any way. Isn't that nice?" 

"Okay, okay. I didn't mean anything by it." The Sheriff rapped his knuckles softly on the table, fidgeting like he always did. He didn't realize he had the some of the same tics as his son, and they came out when he was uncomfortable or irritated. Stiles didn't feel much like taking a guess which one it was. 

"I know," Stiles said. _You never do_ , he thought.

He stood up and poured himself a bowl of sugary cereal for himself, eating it while leaning against the sink because the chair he'd vacated felt too much like sitting in the interrogation room at the station.

"You going to see Scott next?" His dad asked.

Stiles swallowed his milky cereal with great difficulty. "Yeah. I miss him."

The Sheriff smiled. "I'll bet. It's so odd to see you two in such different places in your lives. You were always within a few months of each other, developmentally. Your growth spurts, voice change, first crush, all that. But now him, with Allison and the baby, and you, with your job," he trailed off, then shrugged. "It's strange to me, is all."

Stiles put his bowl back down on the counter, still half full with slowly expanding marshmallows. It wasn't the first time his dad had compared Stiles and his best friend and found Stiles to be lacking.

"I'm 23," Stiles said, commending himself on the steadiness of his voice. "It's not unusual for someone my age to be a bit commitment-phobic."

Although, fear of a long-term relationship wasn't really his problem. Lydia had made him promise that he'd keep himself open for other attachments, but when every person who might've had a passing interest in him had to be compared to Lydia, it wasn't surprising to him that he hadn't given his number to a single person in Montana. His father wouldn't understand. He still saw Lydia as the queen bee of BHHS she wanted everyone to see, and while he'd never said it out loud, he definitely had his doubts about Stiles' appeal to someone like her.

"I know." His dad nodded wisely. "It wouldn't hurt for you to put yourself out there, though. 

"How do you know I'm not?" Stiles shot back. "I don't tell you everything I do."

"Okay."

The silence was awkward again, and Stiles immediately felt like the biggest dick in the world while simultaneously smarting from the--probably imagined--slights he'd taken this evening. It was Christmas day, and he couldn't even manage to keep his peace for a few hours. 

He stood up and left the kitchen, grabbing his jacket then coming right back. He needed to go. He'd outstayed his welcome, and if he didn't get on the road now, he was going to start swearing a blue streak, and neither of them wanted that. 

He checked his watch. It'd been an hour and a half since he'd shown up on his dad's doorstep, which must be a record for them. During his college years, it had normally taken them until a few days into his Christmas vacation or spring break for them to rub each other the wrong way. It was one of the reasons why he'd taken the job in Montana in the first place. He loved his dad. He always would. But they were too similar in some ways and vastly different in others to live too close to each other. It'd been like that ever since Stiles had grown up enough to understand that his dad didn't always know best, and wasn't right about everything.

"Will I see you tonight?" The Sheriff asked, leaning in the entrance on the kitchen, watching Stiles struggle with his unseasonable-for-California winter coat. 

Stiles shook his head, clearing the lump from his throat. "Probably not. I gotta catch a flight at a time early enough that I don't know whether to call it morning or night. It was good to see you, though."

"You too, son." He opened his arms and Stiles leaned in for another warm, constricting hug. "I do miss you, you know."

Stiles' eyes stung and he buried them in his dad's soft grey sweatshirt. "I know. I miss you too, Dad."

After they'd both let go and he was out the door, Stiles looked at his dad, backlit in the doorway of his childhood home. He was happy he came, but he was almost as happy that he was leaving. He'd planned on maybe coming back after seeing Scott and everyone else, depending on how well his conversation with Lydia went, but he didn't think that would be a good idea anymore. He had so many memories of the holiday season in that house, and it'd be a shame to taint them all if they got into a bigger fight than they had just now, which seemed inevitable these days.

It wasn't as cold as Montana, but in December, even this far south wasn't balmy. His coat would probably get too warm if he kept it on for a long time, but he was glad he had it on the walk to his jeep. He didn't feel as warmed through as he'd thought he would.

The older Stiles became and the further away he got from being a child, the less patience his dad had for him. The indulgent head shakes were drying up and it made Stiles wonder just how much of his dad's tolerance had been a hardship for him.

He got into his jeep and let his head fall onto the steering wheel, just for a couple seconds. He had a schedule to keep, and his pitiful persecution complex would have to wait. He reached for his pocket to get his phone to tell Scott he was coming--

"Sh--" He whipped his hand away from his pocket like he'd burned himself. "--Shouldn't do that. No phone. No phone at all, nope. Against the rules."

He slapped his own wrist, hard, then rubbed the pain away. If he'd only taken it out of his pocket and put it somewhere he couldn't get to, this wouldn't be nearly so hard. Though, Peter probably wouldn't have let him do that, the fucker. It wouldn't be challenging if the thing was locked in the glove box. 

Oh, well. He just had to assume Scott was home, and hope he'd be up for a drop-in. That was, if he could remember how to get to Scott's place.

***

_The shadow crept along the neat, symmetrical houses, jagged and freakish in its shape and the flitting, swirling way it moved. It paused and watched a set of tail lights turn on with a flash and trundle away down the street._

_Shadows couldn't smile with a gleeful tilt and too-white teeth. Nor could they brush an incorporeal hand down a porch railing where another hand had recently touched. And a shadow certainly couldn't leave behind an impression of two flickering balls of icy blue, and two dagger points of glistening blood-red._

_Most shadows._

***

Stiles sat on his best friend's comfy, laundry-draped couch in complete shock. How did he not know that babies could be so _loud_?

The baby in question, Scott's daughter, hadn't stopped screaming since he'd gotten there, and from the look of Scott and Allison, had been going a lot longer than that. They were like zombies, shuffling around, taking turns bouncing Vicki up and down to no discernible effect. (Scott seemed to believe that it was making it better, though, and Stiles didn't make a habit of disagreeing with people with crazy eyes like that.) 

"So," Stiles started, trying to sound natural while still having to almost shout over Vicki. "How are things?"

"Good," Scott said, and despite his pained smile and bloodshot eyes, he seemed like he really meant it. "I mean, it's not the best right now, but...yeah, it's good."

"Oh, yeah. Totally. Is she, um," _Possessed?_ He wanted to say. _The anti-christ? Related, somehow, to Peter?_ "Is she okay?"

"She's teething. It's been hard for her."

"Ouch."

"I'm going to try the soother again, Scott," Allison said, already shuffling off down the hall to the kitchen with the baby wailing in her arms. Stiles really wasn't sure if she was purposefully giving them some bro-time, or if she didn't care one bit and was just looking for some relief for her own sake.

"Man, she's gotten big since I last saw her," Stiles said, and Scott laughed, even though he obviously only had one ear listening. The other was on the sobs that were clearly failing to let up. 

"She was a newborn then. Of course she's bigger."

"I've seen pictures too, don't forget." So many pictures. Every other text he got from Scott was a picture of Vicki doing something impossibly cute. (Or so he was told. They all looked pretty similar to him.)

"Yeah, of course. Not the same as she is in person, though, is she?" Scott beamed, and even the bags under his eyes looked happy. "Isn't she cute?"

"The cutest," Stiles assured him, but the actual words of his response could have been gibberish for all they sank into Scott's brain. 

Scott only lasted about fifteen minutes more of the visit. Stiles was deep into a long story about an annoying co-worker when he looked over and saw his buddy slumped against the back of the couch, looking more unconscious than asleep.

Stiles smiled, remembering all of the sleepovers they had, some just for fun, but most necessitated by the changing schedules of their parents. They'd had a good run, he figured. They were just a couple of guys living life at each other's sides for a lot of years. Stiles really couldn't begrudge his best friend his new life that was so different from Stiles' that there didn't seem to be much room for what they used to have. He felt a bit stupid for not realizing that it wasn't as simple as showing up at Scott's place anymore.

He got up from the couch and draped a clean-looking blanket over Scott, then padded out of the living room as quietly as he could. He'd reached the kitchen by the time he realized that the house was actually quiet enough that he could hear his own thoughts. Whatever Allison had done must have worked.

"Hey," he said to her as he entered the kitchen and saw her slumped in a chair with Vicki snoozing on her shoulder. "Scott's out like a light."

She smiled wanly. "I thought that might happen. He deserves it. His turn at paternity leave doesn't start until next month, and it's been crazy at Deaton's."

"He's a trooper." He leaned down to look at Vicki's face. She was cuter now that she wasn't screaming bloody murder, but he wasn't about to pinch her chubby cheeks. No way he was going to risk Defcon five again. "Finally bedtime, huh?"

Allison shrugged gently. "Not for me. She'll wake up the moment I try to put her down."

"Wow. That sucks." It was all he could think of to say, even though it probably wasn't very tactful. 

She didn't seem to mind it. "A bit, yeah. But Scott'll wake up pretty soon and take her for a few hours so that I can get a nap in, and Melissa's coming over in the afternoon for a belated Christmas dinner. She'll insist on cooking and taking care of Vicki at the same time, which she is perfectly capable of doing, even though it's been years since Scott was Vicki's age."

"I believe it. The woman's a superhero."

He felt a pang, knowing he would've been invited to that dinner if he'd been expected to show his face in Beacon Hills. He knew he was lucky to have what he he'd been given, but it was hard not to still feel cheated.

"I think I'm gonna head out," he said, sticking his hands in his pockets. He didn't think Allison would think he was rude for skinning out so quickly, but he didn't know her as well as he did Scott. They were friends, sure, but most of what they had in common was Scott, who was dead to the world and likely to stay that way.

Well, Scott, and Lydia. 

"I know that look."

Stiles startled. "What?"

"That's the Lydia Look," she explained, her bloodshot eyes crinkling with humour. "Are you going to see her?"

"That's the plan." He picked up his jacket from the kitchen chair he'd draped it on when he'd first come in, checking for his wallet, but not his phone this time. He was getting better.

"Have fun for me, then," Allison said, staring wistfully in the direction of the front door. "Drink responsibly and all that."

"Will do." He leaned in for a careful kiss on her cheek, making sure he didn't jostle Vicki from her regeneration stage. "Merry Christmas."

"You too." He turned to go, then heard, "But Stiles," and faced her again. She was biting her lip, her eyebrows creased in the middle as she chose her words carefully. "Be careful. With Lydia. I love her as much as you do, but in a different way, so I'm able to see the things you aren't. She's not perfect, and she's not...she's not the happily ever after type." She stared hard at Stiles as she said this, like she was trying to convey much more than her words did on the surface. 

Stiles blinked. "Sure," he said, for lack of anything else. 

"I don't think you are either," she said, with more confidence. 

"Oh no?" It was a pretty strange thing for her to think since he'd dreamed of nothing but his and Lydia's happily ever after since he knew what it even meant. 

She nodded, then looked down at the fuzzy top of Vicki's head. "You might think you are, but the white picket fence and the mortgage and the nine to five? They'd bore you to tears."

"Maybe." Stiles tried to picture his future without the things he'd always thought he'd have when Lydia was ready to be with him. He drew a blank. "Thanks for that, I guess."

She smiled one more time at him, but there was something sad in it this time. Stiles escaped it with a lazy wave and was back out in his jeep within a couple minutes. He rubbed his hands together to warm them, feeling cold despite the marked difference between the weather here and where he'd come from.

It was nice to see Scott again. They'd never fallen out of touch, even with the baby and everything, and they talked more often than Stiles and his dad had. (The Sheriff was as proficient with computers as he could expect to be at his age, but Skype still seemed to baffle him.) He was happy he'd seen his best friend in person, but it was hard not to feel like an outsider. His life was pretty different from Scott's and for one of the few times in his life, he really couldn't understand what Scott was going through, good or bad. Mostly good, he knew.

And he really didn't know what to think about Allison's warning. She and Lydia had been friends since high school, just like Stiles and Scott, but Stiles had been Lydia's friend too. Still was, though he wished that would change. He knew her just as well as Allison, which was why they'd be so great together. All the groundwork was done, the hard part over with.

Stiles frowned, thinking of his Rubik's cube, relegated to a drawer after the challenge was gone.

He shook his head, starting the car. People weren't games he could learn how to play. There was little he didn't know about Lydia, but she could always keep him guessing.

Couldn't she?

***

For the night of such a family-oriented holiday, it was surprisingly difficult to find a parking space downtown. Although, he supposed there were a lot of people like him: Home to visit family, but chafing at the feeling of forced togetherness and using the excuse of visiting friends to escape.

Jungle was still the dive it'd always been, but it held less of a taboo appeal. Through the eyes of an adult of legal drinking age, it wasn't impressive, but the drinks were cheap, the music was alright, and the company was going to be great.

Stiles had really lucked out. Some proactive individual on the periphery of his high school friend cluster had set up a facebook event for a get-together at the club after Christmas dinners had been digested. He'd been invited by someone who hadn't known he'd planned to stay in Montana over the holidays and, masochist that he was, he hadn't declined or accepted the invitation. He'd just let it sit to the side of his news feed, reminding him every time he looked at it what he was missing out on. It was a good thing he had since he had no other way of contacting anyone otherwise.

He lined up with the rest of the rabble behind the velveteen rope, intending to wait his turn. It was a little worrying how intolerably bored he was within a couple of minutes. Normally, he'd have already pulled out his phone and failed spectacularly at a level of Candy Crush, or, if he was feeling productive and grown-up, skimmed a few news articles. It was a little strange to be alone in his head for so long, but it gave him an excuse to people-watch more than he normally would.

It was because he was scanning the street for anyone interesting that he recognized Danny's face before he heard his shout of, "Hey, you piece of shit!" 

Stiles grinned at the familiar greeting and ducked under the rope. Danny never waited, and friends of his were friends of The Jungle's. 

"Hey, fu--" He set his jaw and smiled tightly. "Friend."

Danny raised an eyebrow. "Really? That's what you've got?" 

Stiles shrugged and tried to project innocence. "I'm giving up swearing for my new year's resolution. Gotta get some practice in."

"Yeah, whatever, Pollyanna. I didn't think you were gracing BH with your presence this year. What gives?"

"Change of plans, my dear Watson. I'm leaving in the morning, though, so don't start making plans for New Year's Eve."

They heard Danny's name being called from the door and they both turned to see Heather leaving them in her dust. Stiles found himself with a pretentiously beveled bottle in his hand a few minutes later, while Danny held court, giving a back-slapping hug to everyone who actually stuck with their RSVP and showed up.

"Where's Lydia?" Stiles asked him once the small crowd had dispersed, aiming for nonchalance and failing.

"Oh, she'll be here," Danny said, slyly, clinking his drink with Stiles'. "Does she know you will be too?"

"Not yet. I wanted to surprise her."

"Oh, I bet she'll be surprised." He took a drink of his rum and coke, then looked at Stiles sharply. "So, you going to finally make the move?" 

Was he so obvious? Did everyone know he was still pining after Lydia, after all these years of friendship? "Yeah. I think so."

"Well, good luck with that." 

"Thanks." Danny didn't sound particularly encouraging or hopeful. Stiles took another sip of his...beer? It was pee-coloured and it kind of tasted like perfume, so it could've been anything. He put it down on the counter and pushed it away. He wanted to have a good time tonight, but he was also on a strict timeline and he had rules to stick to. He'd had some near-misses already, so he couldn't afford to be impaired in any way. 

He licked the perfumy taste away from his teeth. Actually, the more he lived with it, the less he hated it. He snagged the bottle back from the counter. One wouldn't hurt him. He'd stick to that, have some fun while he waited for Lydia, then be home well before sunrise.

He left Danny at the bar and waded into the teeming crowd, already feeling the bass in his bones. He'd missed dancing at Jungle, more than he'd thought he did. And who knew? It might be his last hour as a single man for quite some time.

***

_"What are you doing here?"_

_"Hello, Derek, fancy meeting you here. Probably the same thing you're doing. I'm keeping an eye on someone."_

_"A human? Why are you so interested? What are you up to?"_

_They both watched the human twist and pulse in the mass of teeming bodies, sweat glistening on his skin as his heart rate rose to match the quick pace of the music. To most, he wasn't any different from the other humans around him, also sweating, also laughing, having a good time. But to some, his soul glowed like a light bulb through a fist, sizzling and smarting through its covering, a connection to another soul that couldn't be denied: He'd made a deal._

_"Don't play dumb, nephew. I know you play up the strong and silent type up there, but I know you, and I know your mother. She sent you down here, didn't she?"_

_"Alright, fine. I know about the deal you gave him, and your price. A ride to the airport? Really?"_

_"Really. You'd be surprised how difficult it is to pull favours in my position. Or maybe you wouldn't."_

_"That doesn't explain why you're so interested in him right now. You know you're not permitted to influence the outcome in any way, or Mother will invalidate the contract. I thought you were done toying with people like this, like the spoiled child you are."_

_To the other patrons of the club--the ones who were perceptive enough to notice that the shadows they were seeing were more than just shadows--it might have looked like the beginning of a passionate embrace. One man had another pressed against a wall, but a closer look--that no one was bothering to take--would reveal the press of claws against a vulnerable throat._

_"Remember who you're talking to, nephew. I knew the rules by heart before you were even a twinkle in your mother's eye. She likes to speak of me behind my back, filling your heads with all sorts of lies about how weak being separated from the family has made me, but she has no idea what kind of power I hold. Why would she? There's no one like me, and there never will be. So I would be cautious and make sure I didn't believe everything I was told if I were you."_

_The claws were withdrawn and the shadows became less dense as one of them dissolved into thin air. The shape that was left listened to the music for a few more seconds, then spoke to someone who wasn't there but was nevertheless still listening._

_"I stopped answering to Talia when she cast me out. So you can leave me to my fun. None of you are responsible for me anymore, so nothing I do is on your conscience. Tell her that. And tell her that I'll kill the next spy she sends. Family or not."_

_The shadow returned to prowling the edge of the club, a hazy form on the edge of the humans' vision, not fully corporeal, but not invisible either. He wanted to feel the same heat that one particular human was feeling, smell the same humid air. This close, he could almost taste the human's high emotions._

_So close. Just a few hours more._

***

"Stiles!"

"Huh?"

He turned around and nearly fell over. He'd only had two drinks, and that was his self-enforced limit, but he'd been dancing for so long that his limbs were starting to go a bit jelly-like. God, he'd missed this. He'd been too alone and too cold to go out anywhere in Montana, and it wasn't like he had a lot to choose from when it came to his brand of nightlife.

It was Danny who'd bothered him.

"She's here."

"Who?"

"Lydia." Danny raised his eyebrow. "Your dream girl? The one you're planning on nabbing tonight? Ring a bell?"

"Oh." He'd actually forgotten. He shook himself, wondering if he was drunker than he'd thought, but he felt fine. She'd just...slipped his mind.

"I left her by the bar. It's up to you, now, loverboy." Danny headed toward the upper level of the club, throwing, "God help you," over his shoulder.

"Thanks," he said, weakly, then he started wading through the crowd to the bar, his heart speeding up and his stomach turning to lead the closer he came. Under the pink and purple lights, her hair wasn't easy to spot, but he recognized her straight-backed posture soon enough. His gut clenched, a harsher, more painful tug than the butterflies he was used to.

"Lydia," he said, and she turned around. Her smile was like a tepid bath on a hot day. Almost too much when he was already so content. She slipped off her stool and was hugging him hard in seconds, and he could smell her fruity shampoo over the ocean of different colognes.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you were going to be here," she said, poking him in the shoulder when she finally let go.

"It was last minute. I came as quick as I could."

"Oh, sure you did. It only took you until...what time is it anyway?"

Stiles didn't even reach for his pocket. He was getting the hang of this. "It doesn't matter. I'm here now, and I have something to ask you."

Lydia's genuine smile turned brittle. "Oh? Well, maybe now's not the time. It's so loud in here, and I only just--"

"I'm leaving in the morning. Early. It's kind of a now or never thing." Stiles didn't miss the way Lydia's hand tightened on her glass. His stomach tightened in response, but he didn't give up. "Please? It's important."

He watched her wrestle with herself, chewing her lip, ruining the dark colour that painted them. Was it red? That seemed too obviously festive for her. Maybe it was burgundy, a darker, drier colour than happy cherry. Until they went somewhere with better, less psychedelic lighting, he wouldn't be able to tell.

"Okay," she said, then she wasted no time in grabbing his hand, and leading him through the crowd. There was a hallway at the back of the building, beyond the bathrooms and the stages. Stiles had seen it before but never had any reason to go down it, but now that he had, he thought it probably led to a staff room. Even bartenders needed a break from the constant pounding bass and seizure-inducing flashing lights, he supposed.

Lydia stopped halfway down the narrow hall and turned back to him. Under the flickering fluorescent lights, he could finally see her clearly. Her lipstick was brown. It had sparkles in it, which matched the gold sequins on her dress. She looked great, as usual.

She probably thought she'd changed a lot since high school. Her skirts were longer, tops cut higher now that she didn't feel the need to show skin in order to win a place in the conversation. Maybe other things had changed too, but to Stiles, she hadn't changed much at all. She was the same Lydia he'd always wanted, smart, sharp and beautiful in the way a piece of cut crystal was.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?" She said, her voice as falsely bright as the light bulbs above them.

He swallowed. This was it. The moment he'd practicing for for years. "I think you know."

Her lips twitched, but it wasn't anything like a smile. "Stiles, I don't--"

"Lydia, you told me when I left that you needed time," he interrupted, his heart pounding. "I've given you that. If it wasn't enough time, tell me now, and I'll back off, but I think six months is plenty long enough to consider the answer to one question. Am I wrong? Am I underestimating?"

"No. You're not wrong. I thought about it. A lot." She looked down and checked her nails, and to anyone else, it would look like she was bored of the conversation already, but Stiles knew that it was one of a few habits she had that were actually nervous tics disguised by a reputation for excellent personal hygiene. "I did what you asked me to, just like you did what I asked. And I want you to know how much I appreciate that. I know how hard it must have been for you to not ask me what I was feeling. So thank you."

"It's fine." It was torture, but he'd do it again in a heartbeat. "I never wanted you to feel pressured. I'm not an awkward high schooler anymore, whining about the Friend Zone and trying to guilt you into having feelings for me."

"I know you aren't. That's what makes this so…" Her face twisted and her eyes shone with emotion. She took his hands in her trembling ones. "I've actually known for a while now what I was going to tell you when I saw you again. I just didn't want to tell you over the phone. Stiles, I--"

"Before you say anything."

"Stiles, please."

"I know, just--" He wasn't stupid. He knew what she was about to say. He could feel her gearing up to let him down gently, had been feeling it since her smile dimmed at the bar when he said they needed to talk. He didn't know why he was trying to stall the inevitable. "I want you to know that I love you, no matter what you say next."

Her tears spilled over, sliding down her blush and foundation layered skin. "I love you, too. You're my best friend, and you understand me. But I--I just can't be in love with you. I tried. I've even dated a few guys and I knew that they could never get me like you can, but I just can't see you that way, not after so long. And before you regret not making a move sooner, I don't think I could have seen you that way in high school either. We're just not compatible like that. We work as friends, but nothing else."

Stiles looked down at the floor, then he nodded. He got a little carried away with his nodding, feeling like a bobble-head doll, but couldn't make himself stop. He was fine. He wanted her to know he was fine, totally fine. He was…

"--t's okay," he croaked. His throat was so tight he could barely open his mouth. "You...I'm glad you told me. I just want you to be happy."

"I know you do." Her tears fell faster, seeping unhindered into the collar of her dress. The sequins did a good job of hiding them, though, and he was glad about that. She could go back to the club and have a good time after this, with only a small smudge of eyeliner to give her away.

"I should--" He dropped her hands, then immediately regretted it. Would she ever touch him so easily again? Or would they be too awkward after putting the final nail in the coffin of the possibility of a relationship? "I should go."

He turned to do just that, but she stopped him with her fingers on his arm.

"This is a good thing, Stiles," she insisted. "I know you won't see it like that for a while, but you have to trust me. When you left, I was able to see everything a lot clearer, not just about myself but you too. When you picture me and you together, you picture the perfect life. The suburbs, a steady job, kids and everything. But that's not what you really want. You want what you think I am, and what you think I'll give you, but it's an illusion. It's you trying to be a person you're not."

 _She's not the happily ever after type_ , Allison had said. _I don't think you are either._

"You know, you're not the first person to say something like that to me today," he said, strengthening his voice against the quaver he could feel coming on. He wouldn't lose it in front of her. She didn't need that guilt.

She sniffed, wiping away the evidence of her upset. "Yeah? Well, maybe you'd better listen to us."

"Maybe." And do what with their observations? He was a planner. He'd planned out his whole life, based on what he thought was sure to be in his future. Idiotic, he realized, especially since Lydia had asked him specifically not to count on her. So what now? If he wasn't the happily ever after type, then what was he?

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, smelling salt water and perfume. "Bye, Lydia. Have fun tonight, okay?"

She smiled, brave and sad. "Okay. Are you sure you can't stay? I missed you."

"I missed you too." In more than one way. Even though she'd told him not to, he couldn't help but wonder how differently they would have played out if he'd been a more confident 16-year-old, able to take a step back and let Lydia come to him. "But I can't stay."

She squeezed his arm one more time before she let him go. "Alright. Bye."

He walked away first, and he could hear the absence of her steps behind him. She was smart, letting him get a head start. His own tears were spilling over before he made it to the entrance of the club, and it was only by pure luck that he didn't meet any of his friends on the way. They all probably knew, he realized. They probably pitied him.

He knuckled away the tears as he climbed into the jeep. It was useless for him to cry, and he really didn't have anything to cry about. He loved Lydia, and always would, regardless of how that love took its form. If he had to love her as a friend, that was fine as long as he got to keep her around.

That was what he told himself. Over and over, he could say it in his head, trying to make it feel true, but with the wound so fresh, it was almost impossible to make it the truth. His tears dried, and his eyes cleared enough that he could drive, but he felt like his heart was still on the dancefloor, being trampled by uncaring feet.

He went back to his father's house, even though he'd said he wouldn't, and parked the jeep on the same side street a safe distance away. He wasn't in any frame of mind to drive, and he was too tired for his long, crazy day. Besides, however disappointing it'd turned out to be, he wasn't ready to give up on his magical miracle Christmas.

The lights were off and the door locked when he reached the porch, and he made sure to be silent as he let himself in. If his dad was asleep, Stiles wanted him to stay that way. He didn't want an 'I told you so,' or a 'plenty of fish in the sea' brush off. All he wanted was to curl up somewhere away from the world and his absolute shitshow of a day.

He felt wrung out, so he passed through the kitchen for a drink. One glass of water probably wouldn't replace all the sweat he'd spent on having a good time before it all went to hell, but it was a start. He set his drained glass in the sink, turned around to leave and noticed a covered plate on the table. Even through the layers of saran wrap, he knew it was some of Melissa's apple spice cake that she made every year for their Brady Bunch-style Christmas Eve lunch.

He unwrapped the plate and picked up one of the slices, but it didn't taste right, even though the recipe hadn't changed in a decade. Underneath the slices of cake was a grease-stained paper with, 'For Stiles' written in Melissa's handwriting. He never got a chance to visit her, and it made the cake turn to ash in his mouth. She was the closest thing to a mother he had now, and they worked only because Mel had had the good sense not to try and mother him. She'd simply been there for him on the few occasions he'd needed the kind of support he couldn't get anywhere else, and how did he thank her? By not even bothering to show up for a visit on his miraculous opportunity to see his family.

He put the uneaten half of his cake back on the plate and wrapped it back up. His dad should be able to enjoy it, because Stiles probably wouldn't, even when he got back to his tiny apartment and got on with his life and everything started looking a lot brighter.

Because it would. He repeated his mantra about Lydia a few more times as he went upstairs to his bedroom. _Better than losing her. Want her to be happy. Wasn't meant to be._

His room was almost exactly as he'd left it; A little more bare than it had been in high school, and a little more crowded with exercise equipment Stiles' dad used when the fancy took him.

He collapsed on the bed without removing anything but his shoes and stared up at the ceiling, with its mysterious splotches and telling dents. When he tallied it all up, it'd been a hell of a long day. When he'd gotten home from work all those hours ago, he'd been ready for immediate food and sleep, but now that his plans had been derailed, he wasn't sure if he could close his eyes. His brain was too busy thinking about everything that had happened since then, every good and bad thing.

Nothing had turned out the way he'd thought it would. Even though he hadn't left yet, he felt like he missed his home and his family just as much as he did when he was lonely and cold in Montana, because what he was missing wasn't real. The perfect Christmas in his head was just an amalgamation of all the Christmases he'd ever had, with a tint of golden nostalgia hiding all the imperfections that had happened along with the good times.

How could he have forgotten what it was really like? There was a reason why he left in the first place, and it wasn't just to take a job that paid well. There were well-paying jobs other places, in cities much closer to Beacon Hills. He'd left because he and his dad had needed space from each other and Scott was at a different stage in his life that didn't involve Stiles. And as for Lydia…

Now that he knew his hope was for nothing, he could stop denying what Allison and Danny and Lydia herself had been trying to tell him. Was he really not the kind of person to have a nuclear family like he'd always envisioned? It was almost impossible to picture something else. The life his mom and dad had had before she died had always seemed like the ideal. What did he have if he didn't have that?

 _The world_ , a traitorous voice said from somewhere within him. _The adventure you wanted when you came to Montana and didn't find. New friends, new places. The challenge you crave._

He rolled over and buried his head in his pillow. Those thoughts were too big, too much to contemplate at this time of night when he was already so off-kilter. He thought of Lydia instead, his safe space he always went to get away from the parts of his brain he was afraid to go near.

The lipstick she'd worn tonight. Her smooth skin. Her clean-smelling hair. Her razor sharp mind.

He tried for a few minutes, but he found himself drifting back to the thoughts of lives he could lead now that the one he'd planned wasn't on the table. When had his happy thought of the woman he thought he loved gotten so stale? Like the Rubik's cube. Like the computers he used to love and now hated to look at. 

He groaned and stuck his head under his pillow. Christmas was supposed to be for fun and festivity and eating too much food, not existential dread and a mid-youth crisis.

He supposed he still had something to feel good about. He'd made it so far without breaking any of Peter's rules. There were only a few hours left in which he could mess up, and if he'd come all this way, he was pretty confident that he could make it back home and keep on the straight and narrow.

In the morning, everything would go back to normal. A little less rose-coloured, and a lot colder, but still more normal than the disaster today had turned out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter: The moment I have it finished!!!! God, I hate working on a deadline. Why did I do this to myself??? I told myself in October that I was too busy for a Christmas fic. smh.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles peeled open his eyes and immediately shut them again. He didn't know what time it was, but from the way his body instinctively recoiled from the dim light that filtered in from the hallway, he was guessing it was early. He pulled his blanket up to his chin then tossed it away, chasing sleep as it danced just out of his reach. And...it was gone. He knew his sleeping habits, and he knew there was a point of no return after he reached a certain level of consciousness.

Why the hell was he awake? And why was it so stiflingly warm? He was always freezing in the mornings because he was a responsible space heater owner and he set it on a timer rather than letting it go all night so he wouldn't be a Stilescicle when he woke up.

And what was that scratchy sound? Like sandpaper, or...static.

His eyes shot open. He bolted upright and stumbled out of bed, tripping over his jeans, then nearly falling over in his haste to put them on. When the top button was fastened, he turned around and looked at the ancient alarm clock he'd dug out of his drawer the night before. 7:26 am, it said in its hateful bright red lettering. That was Montana time. He'd thought he'd set it to go off way earlier, but something must have gone wrong. He'd forgotten how fiddly those piece of shit clock radios could be, and he must have set it for music instead of beeping and had it turned to a frequency that didn't play anything--he groaned in frustration. It didn't matter what had happened. What mattered now was that he had half an hour in which to make a journey that had taken a full hour the day before.

Screaming internally, he picked up his shoes and ran for the door. He thundered down the stairs and passed his dad in the kitchen, shouting his goodbye en route. He sprinted all the way to the jeep, frustrated with responsible past-Stiles who conscientiously parked it so far away. He didn't even do up his seat belt--"Sorry, Dad."--before he was turning the key in the ignition and taking off down the street away from his house. (He did it up right after that, though, because he was no dummy, and he'd seen way too many shock value PSAs.)

He was going 20 over the limit when he realized he had no idea how to get it up in the air again. Last time, Peter had been there taking care of it, and once Stiles had landed, the jeep seemed to realize he had some actual land driving to do. He crossed his fingers, all the rest of them still gripping the wheel and hoped and prayed and then suddenly he was in the air, looking down at the empty public pool as it got smaller and smaller.

That was one thing less to worry about. Now he had bigger things on his mind. How was he going to get back before eight o'clock? The jeep had basically flown itself the last time, and he hadn't been in any particularly rush.

Carefully, he put his foot on the accelerator and pushed. It was difficult to tell when he was so far off the ground, with no scenery whipping past to help him gauge his speed, but he was pretty sure stepping on the gas was making him go faster. Maybe. It certainly couldn't hurt to try.

The journey back was a lot more tense than the journey there. He was angry at himself for making such a rookie mistake, a little hungover from the late night and two drinks on an empty stomach, and still numb from how completely his dream life had been made an impossible fantasy.

But now that he wasn't quite so occupied with thoughts of his family and how much he missed them, he had the time and room in his head to think about the bombshell that had dropped in his lap uninvited.

If Peter was to be believed--and there was some doubt about that--the devil was real, so it followed that some version of Hell probably was as well, and the opposite of that must also be true. Heaven could be real.

He ached to know more. He wanted to sit Peter down and stop his smirking, force him somehow to spill all the details on the places and things Stiles had never fathomed could live outside of fiction.

It was interesting to him that despite the fact that he had new evidence pointing to the existence of something like Christianity's God, he wasn't any more likely to step foot in a church than he had been in the last 15 years. It was less likely, in fact, because when he was a little boy, and his mother was dying, he'd prayed to every deity he could look up in his local library, and none of them had done a single thing.

He understood fate. He understood an all-powerful being having their hands tied. He imagined that somewhere there was a little kid praying for their parent not to die every single day. But that didn't make him less angry, because after a while, eight-year-old Stiles had stopped praying for her not to die. He'd been praying for her pain to end. He'd prayed for someone, anyone, to take her away to whatever afterlife they pleased. Reincarnation had been a favourite of his, but he would have taken anything if it meant she was no longer in her hospital bed, reed thin and wracked with pain from the migraines.

So, no. Stiles' world being opened up to the possibility of a higher power as well as a lower one didn't make him jump at the chance to repent.

He looked down at the clock on his dash. It was 7:46 already, but Missoula was in sight. Somehow, he'd managed to almost make it back on time. All he had to do was keep up his hustle until he was on the other side of his front door. His adventure would be over, and he'd be no worse for wear, really. He felt a little wiser. A little less likely to come home for Vicki's birthday. He had not quite the answer he'd been waiting for from Lydia, but he also had the time and space in his own head to tell himself that it wasn't the end of the world and actually believe it.

He didn't let up on the gas until he was on the ground on a quiet side street a few blocks from his apartment. He assumed that whatever invisibility spell Peter put on the car was still working, but he couldn't trust that Peter wouldn't let the muggles see just to fuck with them. Turning down his street, he looked at the clock again. He had five minutes to get to the garage and get up to his place before the sun officially rose completely. It was doable. He'd done it before, that one time he'd gone grocery shopping and had to pee and decided that he could make totally make it home in time. A tough lesson learned.

It was early enough that the streets were mostly deserted, so he didn't waste any time. With the alley in sight, he gunned it, already seeing home free. That was his mistake. In a few short hours, he'd forgotten everything he'd been taught about driving on snow and ice.

When he tried to make the turn, he skidded, attempted to correct by yanking his wheel the other way, then careened across the slick road until-- _bang!_ He hit the side of a garage just like his, hard enough to jolt his entire body. The passenger side airbag went off--the driver's side had been busted for years--and his shoulder slammed hard into the door, making stars burst across his vision.

"Fuck!" He yelled, in pain and frustration, clutching his injured joint. That was going to need some physical therapy.

It took about five seconds for him to realize what he'd done. The word repeated in his head, loud in the quiet of the battered vehicle. He just sat there for a few moments after that, listening to limp airbag hissing next to him and the turn signal still clicking. The stabbing pain in his shoulder turned into an ache, which didn't hurt any less. It was just different, and Stiles had preferred the other way. It was easy to stay alert when he felt like a white hot poker was stuck in his bone. Now, he felt woozy and shocky as the throbbing radiated heat from the source.

Fighting against the numbness, he clumsily undid his seatbelt and clambered out of the passenger side door. He needed to get inside. Maybe if he made it on time, Peter would let him off. Or maybe Peter hadn't heard him break the swearing rule? ( _Stupid, stupid_ , he thought. Peter wasn't the type to miss things.) He ran down the alley to his garage in shambling steps, managing not to slip. He had three different doors he had to unlock--Garage, front, inside--and he managed all of them with only one arm.

Finally, he leaned back against his door. He was home. He was alive. He was a bit worse for wear, and he'd have to deal with the wreck of his jeep sooner rather than later. Did he need to go to a hospital? Probably. His arm probably shouldn't be feeling so limp.

But he couldn't do that yet. He couldn't make plans or congratulate himself for making it in--mostly--one piece until he looked at the clock. He'd closed his eyes as soon as the door had shut behind him, and it was an exercise in willpower to open them again.

The clock on the oven read 8:04.

His breath rushed out of him and he slid down to the floor. He couldn't see the numbers from down there, but he could picture them clearly all the same. He was late. He hadn't done it. His fingers shook, either from the adrenaline left over from the accident or from the realization that life as he knew it could be at an end, he didn't know. Probably both.

His head thunked back on the door, sending a hollow blast of pain down his neck. Did he hit his head in the accident? He couldn't remember, but he had nausea and dizziness along with with the pain, so he might have a concussion. Did something like that matter to Peter? When he popped up and asked for his due--and Stiles wasn't fooling himself by thinking it'd be a ride to the airport Peter wanted--would he let Stiles patch himself up first?

He was so screwed, and the worst part was, he'd screwed himself. He'd taken a bad deal, knowing what the risk was, to soothe the childish part of him that was freaking out about things not being the same as they were when he was a kid. His shame stung like road rash, but he didn't deny it to himself. He was the one to blame.

In college, he'd taken mythology and Greek classical literature courses, to try and break up the monotony of his major. He'd enjoyed them so much he'd kept all his textbooks and pulled out his favourite stories to read all the time. That was one of the reasons why he felt like such a putz for trying to beat the system. By making a deal like that, he was guaranteed to lose. Fate had a way of catching up with everyone, as all those old heroes learned. Stiles was no hero, but he lost in the same way, so it made no difference.

His body was a maelstrom of various kinds of pain, but his brain picked up on one particular discomfort. His phone was digging into his hip. He wondered how much battery it had left. It'd been at 50 percent when he'd left work yesterday, but he hadn't touched it since then, so…

Touching it wouldn't matter anymore, he realized. He'd already broken two of the rules, why would breaking the third make a difference? He pulled it out of his pocket--23 percent battery. Not bad--and opened a new text to his father. He wished him a merry Christmas, even though it was over, and told him he loved him, even if he couldn't live with him anymore. It felt good, speaking his mind and clearing the air before the string holding the sword over his head broke.

He'd just finished writing a similar text for Scott and Lydia when he heard a familiar _snap_. He looked up and Peter was back. He was leaning against the back of Stiles' couch and the look on his face scared Stiles more than his mere presence. There was no teasing smirk this time. Only a look of disappointment worse than the one his own father had turned on him. It was worse because the consequences of those looks were quite different from each other.

Before, he'd looked dangerous. Now, without the taunting twinkle in his eyes, he looked deadly. The horns that had made him seem a bit like a caricature of a child's nightmare gleamed in the new morning's light, emphasizing their knife-sharp points. Like the blue fire that still flickered on his shoulders, they weren't only for aesthetics. They were weapons.

"Oh, Stiles," Peter said, pushing off the couch. "You really messed that one up, didn't you?"

He sauntered over to where Stiles was still sitting, and his lips crooked for a moment at the sound of Stiles' last texts being sent. Stiles shrank in on himself, as if that would do anything against someone like Peter, and hissed at the jostling of his shoulder. Peter came to a stop in front of him and crouched down like he was about to comfort a kid with a boo-boo. Stiles flinched when Peter's hand reached out, but instead of grabbing him, Peter stroked the length of Stiles' arm. When he came to Stiles' wrist, Stiles was yanked up to his feet, and he braced for agony, but instead, felt...nothing. The pain--all of it, his shoulder, his head, his knee that throbbed with his pulse--had been sucked away. He felt its absence so strongly that his knees gave out on him. He slumped into Peter for only a split second, but it was enough to make him feel like a damsel in distress.

"Thanks," Stiles said, rubbing his shoulder where the ache had been. His head was clear now, and he was as resigned to his fate as he was ever going to get. "So, what'll it be? Do you need your car washed? Eavestroughs cleaned? Hellhounds walked? I'm game. You won fair and square."

Peter laughed, a rich, pleasant chuckle that tripped on Stiles' taut nerves. "Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. I gotta tell you, I don't say this very often, but I was actually rooting for you to make it."

Stiles frowned. "Why?"

"Because I wanted someone to switch it up a bit," Peter said, exasperated, then he looked at Stiles with a fond look in his eye. "And also because I _like_ you. Strange, huh? It is for me, too. I've lived for longer than you could even fathom, had conversations with more people than an average human could meet in three of their lifetimes." Peter's red eyes raked up and down Stiles' form. "And this little brat shows up in a boring state in a boring country and he's actually interesting to me. It's been a long time since that happened, and I appreciate it more than I can say."

He turned his back to Stiles, meandering over to the window to look out into the street. Stiles couldn't move, but he could hear the sounds of the city stirring to life around them. The nine-to-fivers were already on their way out, and Stiles knew Peter could see them scurrying to their soul-sucking office jobs and factory lines. He watched them like Stiles would watch ants crawl to and from a dropped piece of food: Baffled by their pointless existence--back and forth, all day, every day, until death claimed them swiftly--but morbidly fascinated by how quickly and easily a brutal hand could come down and squish them.

"I don't do deals that often anymore," Peter told the window, and Stiles couldn't explain it, but he felt sure that he was being told something that hadn't been spoken aloud before.

"Why not?" Stiles asked, and his feet were moving of their own volition. It wasn't like the thrall he'd been put under. He remembered how vague and untethered he'd felt in those brief seconds, and this was different. He felt drawn to Peter, like a magnet, and he didn't stop until he was looking out of the same pane of glass.

Peter turned away from the window and leaned his shoulder against it. He looked down at Stiles and the flames in his eyes seemed more real than the ones that still flickered on his jacket.

"A lot of the stories about deals with devils are told from the point of view of the one in a million winner," Peter said. "As a result, the facts get a bit...coloured. The fact of the matter is, the ones who take the deals are never the single mother with everything to lose, or the starving artist who's looking for a big break. The ones who take the deal aren't usually like you. They're the businessmen, the pop singers, the self-important idiots who get off on a lucky break." Peter's fist clenched on the cold glass of the window and condensation started to drip at a faster rate. "Deals aren't supposed to end with greedy people getting a reward for biting off more than they can chew. They're supposed to teach people a lesson. Have you learned anything, Stiles?"

Stiles nodded quickly. Of course he had. He'd learned that sometimes loving someone isn't reason enough to be around them all the time. That other people's lives moved on without him, and that was okay. That just because he'd wanted something for a long time didn't mean he had to pretend to himself that he still wanted it after he changed his mind.

And then, to top it all off, he'd nearly killed himself trying to avoid the inevitable. That was a teachable moment right there.

Peter reached out and ran a finger down Stiles' cheek. Stiles' chest clenched in terror just as his stomach swooped with...something else. Anticipation, maybe?

"You're one of the few," Peter said, wryly. "That's the problem with giving bad people a chance to gain some self-awareness. They very rarely take it as the opportunity for personal growth that it is. And it leads to their downfall in the end, every time. Every. Single. Goddamned time."

Peter's hand pushed off the glass as he stalked forward, and even as Stiles backed up, heart pounding, he saw a smudge left behind that was more than surface level. The actual glass had an impression of Peter's claws.

Peter didn't stop until Stiles' back was against the closest wall, then he boxed him in, his rage only inches from Stiles' face. Stiles gripped the smooth wall behind him as best he could, because he still wasn't certain he wouldn't lose his hands if he dared to touch. And he wanted to touch, against all better judgment and reason. Peter was incandescent with anger and Stiles was a moth to his flame.

"I make it easy for them," Peter growled in Stiles' face, his fangs peeking out from behind his snarling lip. "And still, they all fail, because they're stupid, selfish assholes. The worst ones, I take downstairs with me, because they deserve nothing better. But the rest? I have hundreds of favours, just like the one you promised me. Hundreds that I have yet to cash in. But I don't, because I'm bored of it. So bored, all the time, Stiles, you have no idea."

There was a hint of a petulant whine in Peter's voice, and it made Stiles want to smile even though Peter was so close and might not take it well. Peter could be as old as he said, but he could still sound like a kid denied a piece of cake.

The fear holding Stiles hostage started to abate, trickling away like water. He didn't know the extent of Peter's power, but the way he carried himself and the ease with which he bent physics made Stiles think that Peter could crush him flat with a mere flick of his wrist. This had terrified him, before, but after all this time, and all the opportunities he'd had, Peter hadn't hurt him yet. Hadn't gloated, not really. (Stiles was beginning to understand that smug was Peter's default.)

Instead, he'd talked at Stiles, told him secret things and tried to make him understand what life was like for an immortal being who'd outgrown his family and lost his passion for his occupation. Stiles understood. God, did he.

Peter dropped his arms from where they caged Stiles in, but he didn't back away. If anything, he got closer, imploring Stiles with the lean of his body.

"What could someone like them offer me, anyway?" Peter said. "King of Hell isn't just an honourary title. I have all the privileges of the position at my disposal, and I can have whatever I want, like _that_."

Peter lifted his hand to snap and Stiles, without thinking, grabbed his hand, preventing him from making a sound. Peter's hand was warm, but it didn't burn him or melt his skin like it had the glass window. He realized now that Peter probably hadn't meant to cast a spell or blip himself across the room, but he could still feel the tingle of dormant power that came from those fingers.

Peter's smile grew, predatory intensity chasing away the bad temper. It revealed even more of the gleaming white fangs that Stiles would swear had gotten longer and sharper. Stiles wanted to feel the tips of those fangs. On any body part, it didn't matter. He wanted those razor sharp points next to his skin, to break him completely out of the stunned state he'd found himself in after his world was set on its ear.

"So what do you do?" Stiles said, instead of _Bite me, do it, so I can feel something that isn't disappointment and apathy._ "If you don't do deals anymore."

"Whatever I want." Peter took his hand back, curling it around Stiles' wrist then letting it go with a lingering brush. "I punish people who deserve it. Govern people who weren't welcome upstairs. There's a certain amount of maintenance required, but it pretty much runs itself, day to day. So I do what I like, where I like." Peter didn't look nearly as happy about it as Stiles would have thought, but then, he'd said he was bored.

"Is that why you have so many names?"

"I like to leave a mark."

Stiles swallowed. Peter's eyes dropped to the neck of his T-shirt, and it felt like they emitted actual heat. A persisting nervousness fluttered under his breastbone, a reminder that he was not safe in any way, regardless of the fact that he didn't feel like running away. He was rooted to the spot, his fight or flight response quelled in the face of the obvious danger. He felt alive, after years of simply living, never knowing what he was missing.

"Maintenance?" Stiles prodded. "What, stoking the flames? Polishing the torture rack?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "You think Hell's just fire and brimstone? Please. That's all propaganda."

"So what is it like, really?" Stiles hadn't been so eager to know about something since he found out he didn't have to choose one or the other gender to lust after.

Peter cocked his head, considering, one move of a hand away from stroking his goatee like a hot, condescending professor. "It's like your world. Only different."

"Different how?"

"Not by much. Everything is just a little...tilted. To the left, naturally." Peter's lips quirked mischievously and Stiles' helplessly followed. "I'm not doing it justice, you'd have to see it for yourself."

Stiles blinked. "See it myself," he repeated, tonelessly.

Peter's hand came up and he slid his palm up and across Stiles' cheek, ending with his thumb grazing his cheekbone and the rest of his fingers wrapped around Stiles' neck, barely brushing his nape. Stiles didn't move, but he didn't feel trapped.

"I told you yesterday that what I was offering was a one-time deal," Peter said. "I'm not about to go back on that promise. What I'm going to offer you now is just as unique. Perhaps think of it as a two for one package. That was a bet I made you. A wager which you lost. What I'm going to offer you now is just that: an offer. No payment. No strings attached."

He tilted Stiles' face up, staring down with his red, red eyes, and manic, hopeful glee made them dance.

"Come with me," he said, almost hissing with his excitement. "Forget about the debt, just come with me and I can show you a world you wouldn't believe. I could take you anywhere you want to go. Anywhere in this plane of existence and others. Just when you were getting used to a place that was as different as it could be from here, I could take somewhere else completely different again."

"For how long?" If Peter was immortal, even a short time to him could be Stiles' entire life. Did he want eternity? He didn't know--couldn't know.

"However long you like. There's so much to see and I want to see it all through your eyes, Stiles. It'll be like everything is new again."

"Wouldn't I get bored too?"

"Maybe. But not for at least a thousand years."

Stiles laughed, a little hysterically. It was crazy that he hadn't already said an unequivocal no. But it was just like the deal he'd known he shouldn't take. Even when he'd been convinced he had the willpower to refuse, he couldn't keep from asking the details and weighing the pros and cons in his head.

"I don't know you," he croaked, casting desperately for cons that could be easily found if he'd wanted to see them. "How do I know if I even like you? Why should I give up everything I have here to go with you?"

"I grow on people. I know you, Stiles, even if you don't know me."

The thing was, he probably did. He knew things Stiles had never told anyone because he was worried that the dark, nasty parts of himself would be way too dark and nasty for anyone else to handle. He could never be truly candid about everything with the people he loved most in the world, but with the devil? Actual Satan? If he couldn't tell Peter about the thoughts he had that scared him with their grey areas, then who in the world could he tell?

He cleared his throat and tried for casual interest. "Could I come back and visit my family? You saw how much I missed them."

Peter smiled like he'd already won, which, in all honesty, he probably had.

"Of course. If you want to, but I can't guarantee you will. The thing is, Stiles. I don't think you missed your family as much as you thought you did. You missed being cherished. Being wanted. You wanted your father to be unconditionally proud of you and Lydia to love you like you loved her before you knew what love really was. But that's not what you need." Peter closed the small distance between them, pinning Stiles against the wall with his body. Stiles couldn't breathe, and it wasn't because he was stuck between a slab of drywall and a hard place. "You need to be respected. Challenged."

Peter's lips ghosted across Stiles', barely brushing them but electrifying the skin all the same. They were breathing each other's air, close enough to bite and maim. Or soothe and kiss.

"You need to be taken apart atom by atom," Peter growled. "Until there's nothing but your shattered psyche, then put back together by the same hands that did the tearing."

When Peter had sealed the deal yesterday, that kiss had been a declaration. A show of dominance, so Stiles would know who had the upper hand in that battle. Stiles hadn't needed any help knowing who that was, but it'd put him off his game enough to serve its purpose.

This kiss was different. The crash of their lips and tongues was give and take with equal fervour. Stiles was under no illusions that he held the same amount of power as Peter, and if he went with him to places unknown-- _If, ha,_ the voice in his head sneered--the imbalance would be especially noticeable. But just then, with Peter's scalding mouth on his, and a warm body pressed against him, a stark contrast to the freezing cold wall at his back, he didn't care.

Stiles might not feel like he was on equal footing, but Peter liked him the way he was. Out of all of the humans in the world, and possibly other worlds too, Peter was interested in Stiles, and Stiles was interested right back, so who was he to fight that? It was cosmic destiny or some shit. With Pandora's bottomless box of supernatural entities and metaphysical mojo, anything was possible.

Peter ended the kiss and they were both panting.The flames that usually nestled on Peter's shoulders were creeping down his arms, jumping and spitting, and had travelled over Stiles' hand where they were gripping Peter's biceps.

"So, what'll it be, Stiles?" Peter said. "Stay here, with your boring life, and your family who doesn't appreciate you for the fascinating person you are. Or come with me, see what the world has to offer you. What _I_ could offer you."

He knew it was reckless and stupid to want to go. He had no guarantee that Peter would be good for him, and it would not be a smart decision in any way. But he tried to picture going back to his old life, hating his job but going to work every day because it paid the bills, knowing there were things out there that his rational, scientific approach to life couldn't explain. His life wouldn't be the same whether he went with Peter or not.

"Can you take me somewhere hot?" Stiles asked. Having said it out loud, something held captive inside him released. "I'm sick of being cold all the time."

Peter's slow smile was wicked, and for once in his life, Stiles didn't feel like he'd made the wrong decision.

"Sure. Anywhere you like."

Peter said it as easily as a waiter at an empty restaurant, but he meant so much more than that. They could go _anywhere_. Stiles had no idea where to begin.

"When?" Stiles asked.

"Now," Peter said, and Stiles' whole body twitched with eagerness. "Unless you want to stick around here for some reason--?"

"No. Let's go." Stiles' life was about to begin, and he didn't want to waste a single minute.

"Excellent. Pack a bag, if you like. You'll want for nothing, so it's up to you what you bring "

Stiles rushed around, stowing anything he couldn't live without or replace easily into a backpack. His computer, his phone, the chargers for both. A couple of pictures of his mom and dad. A tiny bell ornament from his miniature tree, a sentimental keepsake from the Christmas his life changed irrevocably. When he came back to the living room, Peter was waiting in the exact same spot, watching him with a look of baffled fondness.

Peter extended his hand, palm up, for Stiles to take. Stiles placed his palm on top of Peter's and his hands were perfectly steady. Peter tugged him closer, and Stiles stumbled into his chest. He supposed he should get used to being off-balance if he was going to stick around with Peter for a while.

Peter's arm curled possessively around his waist, and Stiles shivered, then smiled, and said, "You're one hell of a rebound, I gotta say."

Peter's delighted laughter was the last thing Stiles heard before the room spun around them and they were off. To where, Stiles had no idea, but he was sure about one thing: It wouldn't be boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID IT!!! Phew. There was a while there that I didn't think I was going to make it. Damn the holiday season for being so filled with fun and festivities!! No plans for a continuation of this universe, in case you were wondering. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and for commenting...it means so much to me, especially for this fic, which I wasn't as confident in at the start. I like the way it turned out, which surprised me a lot. Subscribe if you'd like to see more of me...I promise after every Steter fic that I'll go back to all the Sterek fics I have unfinished, so warning for a bit of a mixed bag.
> 
> Thanks to my beta [SylvieW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvieW/pseuds/SylvieW), who has posted her own Christmas fic (fluffy Sterek). Even though she's been cackling at me while I panic about the rising word count of this story. :P
> 
> Merry Christmas all of you!


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